oems  <?  Pleasure 


ELLA 


WILCOX 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


BY 

ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX, 

AUTHOR  OF 

POEMS  OF  PASSION."    "MAURINE.       "  MAL  MOULEfc  '    ETC 


CHICAGO. 

8.  CONKEY  COMPANY. 
1897. 


•>        1    1  •>  ^   » •  ,       •       ^  • ,  .1      •> 


1388. 

Copyright  By 
BELFORD  CLARKE  &  CO. 

1892. 

Copyright  By 
MORR1LL,  HIGGINS  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 

1893. 

Copyright  By 
W.  B-  CONKEY  COMPANY. 


33  \ 

775 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Part      I.     Passional 7 

Part    II.     Philosophical 51 

Part  III.     Miscellaneous.. .  .  91 


H54246 


PASSIONAL 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


SURRENDER. 

OVE,  when  we  met,  'twas  like  two  planets  meet- 

ing. 

Strange  chaos  followed;    body,  soul,  and  heart 
Seemed  shaken,  thrilled,  and  startled  by  that  greeting. 

Old  ties,  old  dreams,  old  aims,  all  torn  apart 
And  wrenched  away,  left  nothing  there  the  while 
But  the  great  shining  glory  of  your  smile. 

I  knew  no  past;  'twas  all  a  blurred,  bleak  waste; 

I  asked  no  future ;  'twas  a  blinding  glare. 
I  only  saw  the  present :  as  men  taste 

Some  stimulating  wine,  and  lose  all  care, 
I  tasted  Love's  elixir,  and  I  seemed 

Dwelling    in    some    strange    land,    like    one    who 
dreamed. 


10  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

•*. 

It  was  a  godlike  separate  existence; 

Our  world  was  set  apart  in  some  fair  clime. 
I  had  no  will,  no  purpose,  no  resistance; 

I  only  knew  I  loved  you  for  all  time. 
The  earth  seemed  something  foreign  and  afar, 

And  we  two,  sovereigns  dwelling  in  a  star! 

It  is  so  sad,  so  strange,  I  almost  doubt 
That  all  those  years  could  be,  before  we  met. 

Do  you  not  wish  that  we  could  bk>t  them  out? 
Obliterate  them  wholly,  and  forget 

That  we  had  any  part  in  life  until 

We  clasped  each  other  with  Love's  rapture  thrill? 

My  being  trembled  to  its  very  center 
At  that  first  kiss.     Cold  Reason  stood  aside 

With  folded  arms  to  let  a  grand  Love  enter 
In  my  Soul's  secret  chamber  to  abide. 

Its  great  High  Priest,  my  first  love  and  my  last, 
There  on  its  altar  I  consumed  my  past. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  11 

And  all  my  life  I  lay  upon  its  shrine 

The  best  emotions  of  my  heart  and  brain, 

Whatever  gifts  and  graces  may  be  mine; 
No  secret  thought,  no  memory  I  retain, 

But  give  them  all  for  dear  Love's  precious  sake; 
Complete  surrender  of  the  whole  I  make. 


12  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  OPAL. 

'T'HE  Sunbeam  loved  the  Moonbeam, 
And  followed  her  low  and  high, 
But  the  Moonbeam  fled  and  hid  her  head, 

She  was  so  shy — so  shy. 

te 

The  Sunbeam  wooed  with  passion; 

Ah,  he  was  a  lover  bold ! 
And  his  heart  was  afire  with  mad  desire 

For  the  Moonbeam  pale  and  cold. 

She  fled  like  a  dream  before  him, 
Her  hair  was  a  shining  sheen, 

And  oh,  that  Fate  would  annihilate 
The  space  that  lay  between! 

Just  as  the  day  lay  panting 

In  the  arms  of  the  twilight  dim, 

The  Sunbeam  caught  the  one  he  sought 
And  drew  her  close  to  him.    • 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  13 

But  out  of  his  warm  arms,  startled 
And  stirred  by  Love's  first  shock, 

She  sprang  afraid,  like  a  trembling  maid, 
And  hid  in  the  niche  of  a  rock. 

And  the  Sunbeam  followed  and  found  her, 
And  led  her  to  Love's  own  feast; 

And  they  were  wed  on  that  rocky  bed, 
And  the  dying  Day  was  their  priest. 

And  lo!  the  beautiful  Opal — 

That  rare  and  wondrous  gem — 
Where  the  moon  and  sun  blend  into  one, 

Is  the  child  that  was  born  to  them. 


14  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


P 


THE   DIFFERENCE. 

ASSIGN  is  what  the  sun  feels  for  the  earth 
When  harvests  ripen  into  golden  birth. 


Lust  is  the  hot  simoon  whose  burning  breath 
Sweeps  o'er  the  fields  with  devastating  death. 

Passion  is  what  God  felt,  the  Holy  One, 
Who  loved  the  world  so,  He  begot  his  Son. 

Lust  is  the  impulse  Satan  peering  in 

To  Eden  had,  when  he  taught  Eve  to  sin. 

One  sprang  from  light,  and  one  from  darkness  grew 
How  dim  the  vision  that  confounds  the  two! 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  15 

TWO  LOVES. 

woman  he  loved,  while  he  dreamed  of  her, 
Danced  on  till  flie  stars  grew  dim, 
But  alone  with  her  heart,  from  the  world  apart, 
Sat  the  woman  who  loved  him. 

The  woman  he  worshiped  only  smiled, 
When  he  poured  out  his  passionate  love. 

But  the  other  somewhere,  kissed  her  treasure  most 

rare, 
A  book  he  had  touched  with  his  glove. 

The  woman  he  loved  betrayed  his  trust, 

And  he  wore  the  scars  for  life; 
And  he  cared  not,  nor  knew,  that  the  other  was  true; 

But  no  man  called  her  his  wife. 

« 
The  woman  he  loved  trod  festal  halls, 

While  they  sang  his  funeral  hymn, 
But  the  sad  bells  tolled,  ere  the  year  was  old, 
For  the  woman  who  loved  him. 


16  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


-  THE  WAY  OF  IT. 

r  I  ^HIS  is  the  way  of  it,  wide  world  over, 
•*•        One  is  beloved,  and  one  is  the  lover, 

One  gives  and  the  other  receives. 
One  lavishes  all  in  a  wild  emotion, 
One  offers  a  smile  for  a  life's  devotion, 

One  hopes  and  the  other  believes, 
One  lies  awake  in  the  night  to  weep, 
And  the  other  drifts  off  in  a  sweet  sound  sleep. 

One  soul  is  aflame  with  a  godlike  passion, 
One  plays  with  love  in  an  idler's  fashion, 

One  speaks  and  the  other  hears. 
One  sobs,  "I  love  you,"  and  wet  eyes  show  it, 
And  one  laughs  lightly,  and  says  "I  know  it," 

With  smiles  for  the  other's  tears. 
One  lives  for  the  other  and  nothing  beside, 
And  the  other  remembers  the  world  is  wide. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  17 

This  is  the  way  of  it,  sad  earth  over, 

The  heart  that  breaks  is  the  heart  of  the  lover, 

And  the  other  learns  to  forget. 
"For  what  is  the  use  of  endless  sorrow? 
Though  the  sun  goes  down,  it  will  rise  to-morrow; 

And  life  is  not  over  yet." 
Oh!  I  know  this  truth,  if  I  know  no  other, 
That  passionate  Love  is  Pain's  own  mother. 


18  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


ANGEL  OR  DEMON. 

\/  OU  call  me  an  angel  of  love  and  of  light, 
*       A  being  of  goodness  and  heavenly  fire, 
Sent  out  from  God's  kingdom  to  guide  you  aright, 
In  paths  where  your  spirits  may  mount  and  aspire. 
You  say  that  I  glow  like  a  star  on  its  course, 
Like  a  ray  from  the  altar,  a  spark  from  the  source. 

Now  list  to  my  answer;  let  all  the  world  hear  it, 
I  speak  unafraid  what  I  know  to  be  true: 

A  pure,  faithful  love  is  the  creative  spirit 

Which  makes  women  angels!     I  live  but  in  you. 

We  are  bound  soul  to  soul  by  life's  holiest  laws; 

If  I  am  an  angel — why  you  are  the  cause. 

As  my  ship  skims  the  sea,  I  look  up  from  the  deck, 
Fair,  firm  at  the  wheel  shines  Love's  beautiful  form, 
And  shall  I  curse  the  barque  that  last  night  went  to 
wreck, 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  19 

By  the  Pilot  abandoned  to  darkness  and  storm? 
My  craft  is  no  stauncher,  she  too  had  been  lost — 
Had  the  wheelman  deserted,  or  slept  at  his  post. 

I  laid  down  the  wealth  of  my  soul  at  your  feet 
(Some  woman  does  this  for  some  man  every  day). 

No  desperate  creature  who  walks  in  the  street, 
Has  a  wickeder  hearflhan  I  might  have,  I  say. 

Had  you  wantonly  misused  the  treasures  you  won, 

— As  so  many  men  with  heart  riches  have  done. 

This  fire  from  God's  altar,  this  holy  love  flame, 
That  burns  like  sweet  incense  forever  for  you, 

Might  now  be  a  wild  conflagration  of  shame, 

Had  you  tortured  my  heart,  or  been  base  or  untrue. 

For  angels  and  devils  are  cast  in  one  mold, 

Till  love  guides  them  upward,  or  downward,  I  hold. 

I  tell  you  the  women  who  make  fervent  wives 

And  sweet  tender  mothers,  had  Fate  been  less  fair, 
Are  the  women  who  might  have  abandoned  their  lives 


20  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

To  the  madness  that  springs  from  and   ends   in 

despair. 
As  the  fire  on  the  hearth  which  «heds  brightness 

around, 
Neglected,  may  level  the  walls  to  the  ground. 

The  world  makes    grave    errors    in    judging    these 

% 
things, 

Great  good  and  great  evil  are  born  in  one  breast. 

Love  horns  us  and  hoofs  us — or  gives  us  our  wings. 

And  the  best  could  be  worst,  as  the  worst  could  be 

best. 
You  must  thank  your  own  worth  for  what  I  grew 

to  be, 
For  the  demon  lurked  under  the  angel  in  me. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  21 


DAWN. 

AY'S  sweetest  moments  are  at  dawn ; 

Refreshed  by  his  long  sleep,  the  Light 
Kisses  the  languid  lips  of  Night, 
Ere  she  can  rise  and  hasten  on. 
All  glowing  from  his  dreamless  rest 
He  holds  her  closely  to  his  breast, 
Warm  lip  to  lip  and  limb  to  limb, 
Until  she  dies  for  love  of  him. 


22  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


PEACE  AND  LOVE. 

r  I  "'HERE  are  two  angels,  messengers  of  light, 
Both  born  of  God,  who  yet  are  bitterest  foes. 

No  human  breast  their  dual  presence  knows. 
As  violently  opposed  as  wrong  and  right, 
When  one  draws  near,  the  other  takes  swift  flight 

And  when  one  enters,  thence  the  other  goes. 

Till  mortal  life  in  the  immortal  flows, 
So  must  these  two  avoid  each  other's  sight. 
Despair  and  hope  may  meet  within  one  heart, 
The  vulture  may  be  comrade  to  the  dove! 
Pleasure  and  Pain  swear  friendship  leal  and  true: 
But  till  the  grave  unites  them,  still  apart 
Must  dwell  these  angels  known  as  Peace  and  Love. 
For  only  Death  can  reconcile  the  two. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE,  23 


THE  INSTRUCTOR. 

NT  OT  till  we  meet  with  Love  in  all  his  beauty, 

In  all  his  solemn  majesty  and  worth, 
Can  we  translate  the  meaning  of  life's  duty, 
Which  God  oft  writes  in  cypher  at  our  birth. 

Not  till  Love  comes  in  all  his  strength  and  terror, 
Can  we  read  other's  hearts;  not  till  then  know 

A  wide  compassion  for  all  human  error, 

Or  sound  the  quivering  depths  of  mortal  woe. 

Not  till  we  sail  with  him  o'er  stormy  oceans, 
Have  we  seen  tempests;  hidden  in  his  hand 

He  holds  the  keys  to  all  the  great  emotions; 
Till  tie  unlocks  them,  none  can  understand. 

Not  till  we  walk  with  him  on  lofty  mountains, 

Can  we  quite  measure  heights.   And,  oh,  sad  truth! 

\Yhen  once  we  drink  from  his  immortal  fountains, 
We  bid  farewell  to  the  light  heart  of  youth. 


24  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

Thereafter  our  most  perfect  day  will  borrow 
A  dimming  shadow  from  some  dreaded  night. 

So  great  grows  joy  it  merges  into  sorrow, 
And  evermore  pain  tinctures  our  delight. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  25 


BLASE. 

'"PHE  world  has  outlived  all  its  passion, 

.Jts  men  are  inane  and  blase, 
Its  women  mere  puppets  of  fashion; 

Life  now  is  a  comedy  play. 
Our  Abelard  sighs  for  a  season, 

Then  yields  with  decorum  to  fate. 
Our  Heloise  listens  to  reason, 

And  seeks  a  new  mate. 

Our  Romeo's  flippant  emotion 

Grows  pale  as  the  summer  grows  old ; 
Our  Juliet  proves  her  devotion 

By  clasping — a  cup  filled  with  gold. 
Vain  Anthony  boasts  of  his  favors 

From  fair  Cleopatra  the  frail, 
And  the  death  of  the  sorceress  savors 

Less  of  asps  than  of  ale. 


26  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

With  the  march  of  bold  civilization, 

Great  loves  and  great  faiths  are  down-trod, 
They  belonged  to  an  era  and  nation 

All  fresh  with  the  imprint  of  God. 
High   culture   emasculates   feeling, 

The  over-taught  brain  robs  the  heart, 
And  the  shrine  now  where  mortals  are  kneeling 

Is  a  commonplace   mart. 

Our  effeminate  fathers  and  brothers 

Keep  carefully  out  of  life's  storm, 
From  the  ladylike  minds  of  our  mothers 

We  are  taught  that  to  feel  is  "bad  form." 
Our  worshipers  now  and  our  lovers 

Are  calmly  devout  with   their  brains, 
And  we  laugh  at  the  man  who  discovers 

WTarm  blood  in  his  veins. 

But  you,  O  twin  souls,  passion-mated, 
Who  love  as  the  gods  loved  of  old, 
What  blundering   destiny   fated 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  27 

Your  lives  to  be  cast  in  this  mold? 
Like  a  lurid  volcanic  upheaval, 

In  pastures  prosaic  and  gray, 
You  seem  with  your  fervors  primeval, 

Among  us  to-day. 

You  dropped  from  some  planet  of  splendor, 

Perhaps  as  it  circled  afar, 
And  your  constancy,  swerveless  and  tender, 

You  learned  from  the  course  of  that  star. 
Fly  back  to  its  bosom,  I  warn  you — 

As  back  to  the  ark  flew  the  dove — 
The  minions  of  earth  will  but  scorn  you, 

Because  you  can  love. 


28'  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


THE  SEA-BREEZE  AND  THE  SCARF. 

T  TUNG  on  the  casement  that  looked  o'er  the  main, 

*  *    Fluttered  a  scarf  of  blue; 

And  a  gay,  bold  breeze  paused  to  flatter  and  tease 

This  trifle  of  delicate  hue. 
"You  are  lovelier  far  than  the  proud  skies  are," 

He  said  with  a  voice  that  sighed; 
"You  are  fairer  to  me  than  the  beautiful  sea, 

Oh,  why  do  you  stay  here  and  hide? 

"You  are  wasting  your  life  in  that  dull,  dark  room 

(And  he  fondled  her  silken  folds), 
O'er  the  casement  lean  but  a  little,  my  Queen, 

And  see  what  the  great  world  holds. 
How  the  wonderful  blue  of  your  matchless  hue, 

Cheapens  both  sea  and  sky — 
You  are  far  too  bright  to  be  hidden  from  sight, 

Come,  fly  with  me,  darling — fly." 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  29 

Tender  his  whisper  and  sweet  his  caress, 

Flattered  and  pleased  was  she, 
The  arms  of  her  lover  lifted  her  over 

The  casement  out  to  sea. 
Close  to  his  breast  she  was  fondly  pressed, 

Kissed  once  by  his  laughing  mouth; 
Then  dropped  to  her  grave  in  the  cruel  wave 

While  the  wind  went  whistling  south. 


30  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


THREE  AND  ONE. 

OMETIMES  she  seems  so  helpless  and  so  mild, 

So  full  of  sweet  unreason  and  so  weak, 
So  prone  to  some  capricious  whim  or  freak; 
Now  gay,  now  tearful,  and  now  anger-wild, 
By  her  strange  moods  of  waywardness  beguiled 
And  entertained,  I  stroke  her  pretty  cheek, 
And  soothing  words  of  peace  and  comfort  speak; 
And  love  her  as  a  father  loves  a  child. 

Sometimes  when  I  am  troubled  and  sore  pressed 
On  every  side  by  fast  advancing  care, 
She  rises  up  with  such  majestic  air, 

I  deem  her  some  Olympian  goddess-guest, 

Who  brings  my  heart  new  courage,  hope,  and  rest; 
In  her  brave  eyes  dwells  balm  for  my  despair, 
And  then  I  seem,  while  fondly  gazing  there, 

A  loving  child  upon  my  mother's  breast. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  31 

Again,  when  her  warm  veins  are  full  of  life, 
And  youth's  volcanic  tidal  wave  of  fire 
Sends  the  swift  mercury  of  her  pulses  higher, 

Her  beauty  stirs  my  heart  to  maddening  strife, 

And  all  the  tiger  in  my  blood  is  rife; 
I  love  her  with  a  lover's  fierce  desire, 
And  find  in  her  my  dream,  complete,  entire, 

Child,  Mother,  Mistress — all  in  one  word — Wife. 


32  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

INBORN. 

A  S  long  as  men  have  eyes  wherewith  to  gaze, 
•*"•         As  long  as  men  have  eyes. 
The  sight  of  beauty  to  their  sense  shall  be 
As  mighty  winds  are  to  a  sleeping  sea 

When  stormy  billows  rise. 

And  beauty's  smile  shall  stir  youth's  ardent  blood 
As  rays  of  sunlight  burst  the  swelling  bud; 

As  long  as  men  have  eyes  wherewith  to  gaze. 

As  long  as  men  have  words  wherewith  to  praise, 

As  long  as  men  have  words, 
They  shall  describe  the  softly-moulded  breast, 
Where  Love  and  Pleasure  make  their  downy  nest, 

Like  little  singing  birds; 
And  lovely  limbs,  and  lips  of  luscious  fire, 
Shall  be  the  theme  of  many  a  poet's  lyre, 

As  long  as  men  have  words  wherewith  to 
praise. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  33 

As  long  as  men  have  hearts  that  long  for  homes, 

As  long  as  men  have  hearts, 
Hid  often  like  the  acorn  in  the  earth, 
Their  inborn  love  of  noble  woman's  worth, 

Beyond  all  beauty's  arts, 
Shall  stem  the  sensuous  current  of  desire, 
And   urge   the   world's   best   thought   to    something 
higher. 

As  long  as  men  have  hearts  that  long  for 
homes. 


34  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


TWO   PRAYERS. 

HIS. 

EAR,  when  you  lift  your  gentle  heart  in  prayer, 
Ask  God  to  send  His  angle  Death  to  me 

Long  ere  Ke  comes  to  you,  if  that  may  be. 
I  would  dwell  with  you  in  that  new  life  there, 

But  having,  man-like,  sinned,  I  must  prepare, 

By  sad  probation,  ere  I  hope  to  see 

Those  upper  realms  which  are  at  once  thrown  free 

To  sweet,  white  souls  like  yours,  unstained  and  fair 
Time  is  so  brief  on  earth,  I  well  might  spare 

A  few  short  years,  if  so  I  could  atone 

For  my  marred  past,  ere  you  are  called  above. 
My  soul  would  glory  in  its  own  despair, 

Till  purified  I  met  you  at  God's  throne, 

And  entered  on  Eternities  of  Love. 


.     POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  35 

HERS. 

Nay,  Love,  not  so  I  frame  my  prayer  to  God; 
I  want  you  close  beside  me  to  the  end; 
If  it  could  be,  I  would  have  Him  send 

A  similtaneous  death,  and  let  one  sod 

Cover  our  two  hushed  hearts.      If  you  have  trod 
Paths  strange  to  me  on  earth,  oh,  let  me  wend 
My  way  with  yours  hereafter:    let  me  blend 
My  tears  with  yours  beneath  the  chastening  rod. 

If  you  must  pay  the  penalty  for  sin, 

In  vales  of  darkness,  ere  you  pass  on  higher, 
I  will  petition  God  to  let  me  go. 

I  would  not  wait  on  earth,  nor  enter  in 

To  any  joys  before  you.     I  desire 
No  glory  greater  than  to  share  your  woe. 


36  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


SLEEP  AND  DEATH. 

"\  X  THEN  sleep  drops  down  beside  my  Love  and 
*  *        me, 

Although  she  wears  the  countenance  of  a  friend, 
A  jealous  foe  we  prove  her  in  the  end. 

In  separate  barques  far  out  on  dreamland's  sea, 

She  lures  our  wedded  souls.     Wild  winds  blow  free, 
And  drift  us  wide  apart  by  tides  that  tend 

Tow'rd    unknown    worlds.     Not    once    our    strange 
ways  blend 

Through  the  long  night,  while  Sleep  looks  on  in  glee. 

O   Death!    be  kinder  than  thy  sister  seems, 
When  at  thy  call  we  journey  forth  some  day, 
Through  that  mysterious  and  unatlased  strait, 

To  lands  more  distant  than  the  land  of  dreams; 
Close,  close  together  let  our  spirits  stay, 
Or  else,  with  one  swift  stroke  annihilate! 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  37 

ABSENCE. 

A  FTER  you  went  away,  our  lovely  room 
**    Seemed  like  a  casket  whence  the  soul  had  fled. 
I  stood  in  awful  and  appalling  gloom, 
The  world  was  empty  and  all  joy  seemed  dead. 

I  think  I  felt  as  one  might  feel  who  knew 
That  Death  had  left  him  on  the  earth  alone. 

For  "all  the  world"  to  my  fond  heart  means  you; 
And  there  is  nothing  left  when  you  are  gone. 

Each  way  I  turned  my  sad,  tear-blinded  gaze, 
I  found  fresh  torture  to  augment  my  grief; 

Some  new  reminder  of  the  perfect  days 
We  passed  together,  beautiful  as  brief. 

There  lay  a  pleasing  book  that  we  had  read — 
And  there  your  latest  gift;  and  everywhere 

Some  tender  act,  some  loving  word  you  said, 
Seemed  to  take  form  and  mock  at  my  despair. 


38  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

All  happiness  that  human  heart  may  know 
1  find  with  you;  and  when  you  go  away, 

Tlwse  hours  become  a  winding-sheet  of  woe, 
And  make  a  ghastly  phantom  of  To-day. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  39 

LOVE  MUCH. 

T    OVE  much.      Earth  has  enough  of  bitter  in  it. 
*^    Cast  sweets  into  its  cup  whene'er  you  can. 
No  heart  so  hard,  but  love  at  last  may  win  it. 

Love  is  the  grand  primeval  cause  of  man. 

All  hate  is  foreign  to  the  first  great  plan. 

Love  much.     Your  heart  will  be  led  out  to  slaughter, 
On  altars  built  of  envy  and  deceit. 

Love  on,  love  on!  'tis  bread  upon  the  water; 
It  shall  be  cast  in  loaves  yet  at  your  feet, 
Unleavened  manna,  most  divinely  sweet. 

Love   much.      Your   faith    will    be   dethroned    and 

shaken, 

Your  trust  betrayed  by  many  a  fair,  false  lure. 
Remount  your  faith,  and  let  new  trusts  awaken. 

Though  clouds  obscure   them,   yet  the   stars  are 

pure; 
Love  is  a  vital  force  and  must  endure. 


40  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

Love   much.     Mens'   souls   contract   with   cold   sus 
picion: 

Shine  on  them  with  warm  love,  and  they  expand. 
'Tis  love,  not  creeds,  that  from  a  low  condition 

Leads  mankind  up  to  heights  supreme  and  grand. 

Oh,  that  the  world  could  see  and  understand! 

Love  much.     There  is  no  waste  in  freely  giving; 
More  blessed  is  it,  even,  than  to  receive. 

He  who  loves  much,  alone  finds  life  worth  living, 
Love  on,  through  doubt  and  darkness;  and  believe 
There  is  no  thing  which  Love  may  not  achieve. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  41 

ONE  OF  US  TWO. 
r  I  ^  HE  day  will  dawn,  when  one  of  us  shall  hearken 

•*•      In  vain  to  hear  a  voice  that  has  grown  dumb. 
And    morns    will    fade,    noons    pale,    and    shadows 

darken, 

While  sad  eyes  watch  for  feet  that  never  come. 
One  of  us  two  must  sometime  face  existence 

Alone  with  memories  that  but  sharpen  pain. 
And  these  sweet  days  shall  shine  back  in  the  dis 
tance, 

Like  dreams  of  summer  dawns,  in  nights  of  rain. 
One  of  us  two,  with  tortured  heart  half  broken, 

Shall  read  long-treasured  letters  through  salt  tears, 
Shall  kiss  with  anguished  lips  each  cherished  token, 
That    speaks    of    these    loved-crowned,    delicious 

years. 
One  of  us  two  shall  find  all  light,  all  beauty, 

All  joy  on  earth,  a  tale  forever  done; 
Shall  know  henceforth  that  life  means  only  duty. 
Oh,  God!  Oh,  God!  have  pity  on  that  one. 


42  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

HER  REVERIE. 

WE  were  both  of  us — aye,  we  were  both  of  us 
there, 

In  the  self-same  house  at  the  play  together, 
To  her  it  was  summer,  with  bees  in  the  air — 
To  me  it  was  winter  weather. 

We  never  had  met,  and  yet  we  two 

Had  played  in  desperate  woman  fashion, 

A  game  of  life,  with  a  prize  in  view, 
And  oh!  I  played  with  passion. 

'Twas  a  gamevthat  meant  heaven  and  sweet  home-life 
For  the  one  who  went  forth  with  a  crown  upon 
her; 

For  the  one  who  lost — it  meant  lone  strife, 
Sorrow,  despair  and  dishonor. 

Well,  she  won  (yet  it  was  not  she — 

I  am  told  that  she  was  a  praying  woman: 

No  earthly  power  could  outwit  me — 
But  hers  was  superhuman). 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  43 

She  has  the  prize,  and  I  have — well, 

Memories  sweeter  than  joys  of  heaven; 

Memories  fierce  as  the  fires  of  hell — 
Those  unto  me  were  given. 

And  we  sat  in  the  self-same  house  last  night; 

And  he  was  there.     It  is  no  error 
When  I  say  (and  it  gave  me  keen  delight) 

That  his  eye  met  mine  with  terror. 

When  the  love  we  have  won  at  any  cost 
Has  grown  familiar  as  some  old  story, 

Naught  seems  so  dear  as  the  love  we  lost, 
All  bright  with  the  Past's  weird  glory. 

And  tho'  he  is  fond  of  that  woman,  I  know— 
I  saw  in  his  eyes  the  brief  confession — 

That  the  love  seemed  sweeter  which  he  let  go 
Than  that  in  his  possession. 


44  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

So  I  am  content.  It  would  be  the  same 
Were  I  the  wife  love-crowned  and  petted, 

And  she  the  woman  who  lost  the  game — 
Then  she  were  the  one  regretted. 

And  loving  him  so,  I  would  rather  be 

The  one  he  let  go — and  then  vaguely  desired, 

Than,  winning  him,  once  in  his  face  to  see 
The  look  of  a  love  grown  tired. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  45 


TWO  SINNERS. 

HP  HERE  was  a  man,  it  was  said  one  time, 

Who  went  astray  in  his  youthful  prime. 
Can  the  brain  keep  cool  and  the  heart  keep  quiet 
When  the  blood  is  a  river  that's  running  riot? 
And  boys  will  be  boys  the  old  folks  say, 
And  the  man  is  the  better  who's  had  his  day. 

The  sinner  reformed;  and  the  preacher  told 
Of  the  prodigal  son  who  came  back  to  the  fold. 
And  Christian  people  threw  open  the  door, 
With  a  warmer  welcome  than  ever  before. 
Wealth  and  honor  were  his  to  command, 
And  a  spotless  woman  gave  him  her  hand. 

And  the  world  strewed  their  pathway  with  blossoms 

aboom, 
Crying  "God  bless  ladye,  and  God  bless  groom!" 


46  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

There  was  a  maiden  who  went  astray 
In  the  golden  dawn  of  her  life's  young  day. 
She  had  more  passion  and  heart  than  head, 
And  she  followed  blindly  where  fond  Love  led. 
And  Love  unchecked  is  a  dangerous  guide 
To  wander  at  will  by  a  fair  girl's  side. 

The  woman  repented  and  turned  from  sin, 

But  no  door  opened  to  let  her  in. 

The  preacher  prayed  that  she  might  be  forgiven, 

But  told  her  to  look  for  mercy — in  Heaven. 

For  this  is  the  law  of  the  earth,  we  know: 

That  the  woman  is  stoned,  while  the  man  may  go. 

A  brave  man  wedded  her  after  all, 

But  the  world  said,  frowning,  "We  shall  not  call." 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  47 

WHAT  LOVE  IS. 

T    OVE  is  the  center  and  circumference; 
r--    The  cause  and  aim  of  all  things — 'tis  the  key 
To  joy  and  sorrow,  and  the  recompense 
For  all  the  ills  that  have  been,  or  may  be. 

Love  is  as  bitter  as  the  dregs  of  sin, 

As  sweet  as  clover-honey  in  its  cell; 
Love  is  the  password  whereby  souls  get  in 

To    Heaven — the    gate   that   leads,    sometimes,  to 
-  Hell. 

Love  is  the  crown  that  glorifies;  the  curse 

That  brands  and  burdens;  it  is  life  and  death 

It  is  the  great  law  of  the  universe; 
And  nothing  can  exist  without  its  breath. 

Love  is  the  impulse  which  directs  the  world, 
And  all  things  know  it  and  obey  its  power. 

Man,  in  the  maelstrom  of  his  passions  whirled; 
The  bee  that  takes  the  pollen  to  the  flower. 


48  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

The  earth,  uplifting  her  bare,  pulsing  breast 
To  fervent  kisses  of  the  amorous  sun; — 

Each  but  obeys  creative  Love's  behest, 
Which  everywhere  instinctively  is  done. 

Love  is  the  only  thing  that  pays  for  birth, 

Or  makes  death  welcome.     Oh,  dear  God  above 

This  beautiful  but  sad,  perplexing  earth, 

Pity  the  hearts  that  know — or  know  not — Love! 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  49 


CONSTANCY. 

r 

T  WILL  be  true.     Mad  stars  forsake  their  courses, 

And  led  by  reckless  meteors,  turn  away 
From  paths  appointed  by  Eternal  Forces; 

But  my  fixed  heart  shall  never  go  astray. 
Like  those  calm  worlds  whose  sun-directed  motion 

Is  undisturbed  by  strife  of  wind  or  sea, 
So  shall  my  swerveless  and  serene  devotion 

Sweep  on  forever,  loyal  unto  thee. 

I  will  be  true.     The  fickle  tide,  divided 

Between  two  wooing  shores,  in  wild  unrest 
May  to  and  fro  shift  always  undecided ; 

Not  so  the  tide  of  Passion  in  my  breast. 
With  the  grand  surge  of  some  resistless  river, 

That  hurries  on,  past  mountain,  vale,  and  sea, 
Unto  the  main,  its  waters  to  deliver, 

So  my  full  heart  keeps  all  its  wealth  for  thee. 

4 


50  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

I  will  be  true.     Light  barques  may  be  belated, 

Or  turned  aside  by  every  breeze  at  play, 
While  sturdy.,  ships,  well'-manned  and  richly  freighted, 

With  fair  sales  flying,  anchor  safe  in  Bay, 
Like  some  firm  rock,  that,  steadfast  and  unshaken, 

Stands  all  unmoved  when  ebbing  billows  flee, 
So  would  my  heart  stand,  faithful  if  forsaken — 

I  will  be  true,  though  thou  art  false  to  me. 


PHILOSOPHICAL 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  63 


RESOLVE. 

A  S  the  dead  year  is  clasped  by  a  dead  December, 

So  let  your  dead  sins  with  your  dead  days  lie. 
A  new  life  is  yours,  and  a  new  hope.     Remember, 

We  build  our  own  ladders  to  climb  to  the  sky. 
Stand  out  in  the  sunlight  of  Promise,  forgetting 
Whatever  the  Past  held  of  sorrow  or  wrong. 
We  waste  half  our  strength  in  a  useless  regretting; 
We  sit  by  old  tombs  in  the  dark  too  long. 

Have  you  missed  in  your  aim?  Well,  the  mark  is  still 

shining. 
Did  you  faint  in  the  race?  Well,  take  breath  for  the 

next. 
Did  the  clouds  drive  you  back?    But  see  yonder  their 

lining. 

Were  you  tempted,and  fell?    Let  it  serve  for  a  text. 
As  each  year  hurries  by  let  it  join  that  procession 


54  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

Of  skeleton  shapes  that  march  down  to  the  Past, 
While  you  take  your  place  in  the  line  of  Progression, 
With  your  eyes  on  the  heavens,  your  face  to  the 
blast. 

I  tell  you  the  future  can  hold  no  terrors 

For  any  sad  soul  while  the  stars  revolve, 
If  he  will  stand  firm  on  the  grave  of  his  errors, 

And  instead  of  regretting,  resolve,  resolve. 
It  is  never  too  late  to  begin  rebuilding, 

Though  all  into  ruins  your  life  seems  hurled, 
For  see  how  the  light  of  the  New  Year  is  gilding 

The  wan,  worn  face  of  the  bruised  old  world. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  56 


OPTIMISM. 

T  'M  no  reformer;  for  I  see  more  light 

Than  darkness  in  the  world;  mine  eyes  are  quick 
To  catch  the  first  dim  radiance  of  the  dawn, 
And  slow  to  note  the  cloud  that  threatens  storm. 
The  fragrance  and  the  beauty  of  the  rose 
Delight  me  so,  slight  thought  I  give  its  thorn; 
And  the  sweet  music  of  the  lark's  clear  song 
Stays  longer  with  me  than  the  night  hawk's  cry. 
And  e'en  in  this  great  throe  of  pain  called  Life 
I  find  a  rapture  linked  with  each  despair, 
Well  worth  the  price  of  anguish.     I  detect 

More  good  than  evil  in  humanity. 

i 

Love  lights  more  fires  than  hate  extinguishes, 
And  men  grow  better  as  the  world  grows  old. 


56  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

PAIN'S  PROOF. 

T  THINK  man's  great  capacity  for  pain 

Proves  his  immortal  birthright.     I  am  sure 
No  merely  human  mind  could  bear  the  strain 
Of  some  tremendous  sorrows  we  endure. 

Art's  most  ingenious  breastworks  fail  at  length 
Beat  by  the  mighty  billows  of  the  sea; 

Only  the  God-formed  shores  possess  the  strength 
To  stand  before  their  onslaughts,  and  not  flee. 

The  structure  that  we  build  with  careful  toil, 

The  tempest  lays  in  ruins  in  an  hour; 
While  some  grand  tree  that  springs  forth  from  the  soil 

Is  bended  but  not  broken  by  its  power. 

Unless  our  souls  had  root  in  soil  divine 

We  could  not  bear  earth's  overwhelming  strife. 

The  fiercest  pain  that  racks  this  heart  of  mine, 
Convinces  me  of  everlasting  life. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  57 

IMMORTALITY. 

I  MMORTAL  life  is  something  to  be  earned, 
*     By  slow  self-conquest,  comradeship  with  Pain, 
And  patient  seeking  after  higher  truths. 
We  cannot  follow  our  own  wayward  wills, 
And  feed  our  baser  appetites,  and  give 
Loose  rein  to  foolish  tempers  year  on  year, 
And  then  cry,  "  Lord  forgive  me,  I  believe." 
And  straightway  bathe  in  glory.     Men  must  learn 
God's  system  is  too  grand  a  thing  for  that. 
The  spark  divine  dwells  in  our  souls,  and  we 
Can  fan  it  to  a  steady  flame  of  light, 
Whose  luster  gilds  the  pathway  to  the  tomb, 
And  shines  on  through  Eternity,  or  else 
Neglect  it  till  it  glimmers  down  to  Death, 
And  leaves  us  but  the  darkness  of  the  grave. 
Each  conquered  passion  feeds  the  living  flame; 
Each  well-born  sorrow  is  a  step  towards  God; 
Faith  cannot  rescue,  and  no  blood  redeem 


58  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

The  soul  that  will  not  reason  and  resolve. 
Lean  on  thyself,  yet  prop  thyself  with  prayer, 
(All  hope  is  prayer;  who  calls  it  hope  no  more, 
Sends  prayer  footsore  forth  over  weary  wastes, 
While  he  who  calls  it  prayer  gives  wings  to  hope,) 
And  there  are  spirits,  messengers  of  Love, 
Who  come  at  call  and  fortify  our  strength. 
Make  friends  with  them,  and  with  thine  inner  self; 
Cast  out  all  envy,  bitterness,  and  hate; 
And  keep  the  mind's  fair  tabernacle  pure. 
Shake  hands  with  Pain,  give  greeting  unto  Grief, 
Those  angels  in  disguise,  and  thy  glad  soul 
From  height  to  height,  from  star  to  shining  star, 
Shall  climb  and  claim  blest  immortality. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  59 

ANSWERED  PRAYERS. 

T   PRAYED  for  riches,  and  achieved  success; 

All  that  I  touched  turned  into  gold.     Alas! 
My  cares  were  greater  and  my  peace  was  less, 
When  that  wish  came  to  pass. 

I  prayed  for  glory,  and  I  heard  my  name 
Sung  by  sweet  children  and  by  hoary  men. 

But  ah !  the  hurts — the  hurts  that  come  with  fame ' 
I  was  not  happy  then. 

I  prayed  for  Love,  and  had  my  heart's  desire. 

Through  quivering  heart  and  body,  and  through 

brain 
There  swept  the  flame  of  its  devouring  fire, 

And  but  the  scars  remain. 

I  prayed  for  a  contented  mind.     At  length 
Great  light  upon  my  darkened  spirit  burst. 

Great  peace  fell  on  me  also,  and  great  strength — 
Oh,  had  that  prayer  been  first! 


60  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


THE  LADY  OF  TEARS. 

T^HROUGH  valley  and  hamlet  and  city, 
•*•      Wherever  humanity  dwells, 
With  a  heart  full  of  infinite  pity, 

A  breast  that  with  sympathy  swells, 
She  walks  in  her  beauty  immortal. 

Each  household  grows  sad  as  she  nears, 
But  she  crosses  at  length  every  portal, 

The  mystical  Lady  of  Tears. 

If  never  this  vision  of  sorrow 

Has  shadowed  your  life  in  the  past, 

You  will  meet  her,  I  know,  some  to-morrow- 
She  visits  all  hearthstones  at  last. 

To  hovel,  and  cottage,  and  palace, 
To  servant  and  king  she  appears, 

And  offers  the  gall  of  her  chalice — 
The  unwelcome  Lady  of  Tears. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  61 

To  the  eyes  that  have  smiled  but  in  gladness, 

To  the  souls  that  have  basked  in  the  sun, 
She  seems  in  her  garments  of  sadness, 

A  creature  to  dread  and  to  shun. 
And  lips  that  have  drank  but  of  pleasure 

Grow  pallid  and  tremble  with  fears, 
As  she  portions  the  gall  from  her  measure, 

The  merciless  Lady  of  Tears. 

But  in  midnight,  lone  hearts  tha\  are  quaking, 

With  the  agonized  numbness  of  grief, 
Are  saved  from  the  torture  of  breaking, 

By  her  bitter-sweet  draught  of  relief. 
Oh,  then  do  all  graces  enfold  her; 

Like  a  goddess  she  looks  and  appears, 
And  the  eyes  overflow  that  behold  her — 

The  beautiful  Lady  of  Tears. 


62  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

Though  she  turns  to  lamenting,  all  laughter, 

Though  she  gives  us  despair  for  delight, 
Life  holds  a  new  meaning  thereafter, 

For  those  who  will  greet  her  aright. 
They  stretch  out  their  hands  to  each  other, 

For  Sorrow  unites  and  endears, 
The  children  of  one  tender  mother 

The  sweet,  blessed  Lady  of  Tears. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  63 


THE  MASTER   HAND. 

T  T  is  something  too  strange  to  understand, 

How  all  the  chords  on  the  instrument, 
Whether  sorrowful,  blithe,  or  grand, 
Under  the  touch  of  your  master  hand 

Were  into  one  melody  blent. 
Major,  minor,  everything — all — 
Came  at  your  magic  fingers'  call. 

Why!  famed  musicians  had  turned  in  despair 
Again  and  again  from  those  self-same  keys; 

They  mayhap  brought  forth  a  simple  air, 

But  a  discord  always  crept  in  somewhere, 
In  their  fondest  efforts  to  please. 

Or  a  jarring,  jangling,  meaningless  strain 

Angered  the  silence  to  noisy  pain. 

"  Out  of  tune,"  they  would  frown  and  say; 
Or  "a  loosened  key"  or  "a  broken  string;' 


64  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

But  sure  and  certain  they  were  alway, 
That  no  man  living  on  earth  could  play 

Measures  more  perfect,  or  bring 
Sweeter  sounds  or  a  truer  air 
Out  of  that  curious  instrument  there. 

And  then  you  came.     You  swept  the  scale 

With  a  mighty  master's  wonderful  art. 
You  made  the  minor  keys  sob  and  wail, 
While  the  low  notes  rang  like  a  bell  in  a  gale. 

And  every  chord  in  my  heart, 

From  the  deep  bass  tones  to  the  shrill  ones  above, 
Joined  into  that  glorious  harmony — Love. 

And  now,  though  I  live  for  a  thousand  years, 

On  no  new  chord  can  a  new  hand  fall. 
The  chords  of  sorrow,  of  pain,  of  tears, 
The  chords  of  raptures  and  hopes  and  fears, 

I  say  you  have  struck  them  all; 
And  all  the  meaning  put  into  each  strain 
By  the  Great  Composer,  you  have  made  plain. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  65 


SECRET  THOUGHTS. 

T  HOLD  it  true  that  thoughts  are  things 
*     Endowed  with  bodies,  breath,  and  wings, 
And  that  we  send  them  forth  to  fill 
The  world  with  good  results — or  ill. 

That  which  we  call  our  secret  thought 
Speeds  to  the  earth's  remotest  spot, 
And  leaves  its  blessings  or  its  woes 
Like  tracks  behind  it  as  ifcgoes. 

It  is  God's  law.     Remember  it 

In  your  still  chamber  as  you  sit 

With  thoughts  you  would  not  dare  have  known, 

And  yet  make  comrades  when  alone. 

These  thoughts  have  life;  and  they  will  fly 

And  leave  their  impress  by-and-by, 

Like  some  marsh  breeze,  whose  poisoned  breath 

Breathes  into  homes  its  fevered  breath. 
I 


66  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

And  after  you  have  quite  forgot 
Or  all  outgrown  some  vanished  thought, 
Back  to  your  mind  to  make  its  home, 
A  dove  or  raven,  it  will  come. 

Then  let  your  secret  thoughts  be  fair; 
They  have  a  vital  part  and  share 
In  shaping  worlds  and  molding  fate — 
God's  system  is  so  intricate. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE  67 

THERE  COMES  A  TIME 

'"pHERE  comes  a  time  to  every  mortal  being, 
*     Whate'er  his  station  or  his  lot  in  life, 
When  his  sad  soul  yearns  for  the  final  freeing 
From  all  this  jarring  and  unceasing  strife. 

There  comes  a  time,  when,  having  lost  its  savor, 
The  salt  of  wealth  is  worthless;  when  the  mind 

Grows  wearied  with  the  world's  capricious  favor, 
And  sighs  for  something  that  it  cannot  find. 

There  comes  a  time,  when,  though  kind  friends  are 

thronging 

About  our  pathway  with  sweet  acts  of  grace, 
e  feel  a  vast  and  ovenvhelming  longing 
For  something  that  we  cannot  name  or  place. 

There  comes  a  time,  when,  with  earth's  best  love  by  uv.. 
To  feed  the  heart's  great  hunger  and  desire, 

We  find  not  even  this  can  satisfy  us; 
The  soul  within  us  cries  for  something  higher. 


68  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

What  greater  proof  need  we  that  we  inherit 
A  life  immortal  in  another  sphere? 

It  is  the  homesick  longing  of  the  spirit 
That  cannot  find  its  satisfaction  here. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  69 


THE  WORLD. 

"\  \  MTH  noiseless  steps  good  goes  its  way; 

The  earth  shakes  under  evil's  tread. 
We  hear  the  uproar,  and  'tis  said, 
The  world  grows  wicked  every  day. 

It  is  not  true.     With  quiet  feet, 
In  silence,  Virtue  sows  her  seeds; 
While  Sin  goes  shouting  out  his  deeds, 

And  echoes  listen  and  repeat. 

But  surely  as  the  old  world  moves, 
And  circles  round  the  shining  sun, 
So  surely  does  God's  purpose  run, 

And  all  the  human  race  improves. 

Despite  bold  evil's  noise  and  stir, 
Truth's  golden  harvests  ripen  fast; 

The  Present  far  outshines  the  Past; 
Men's  thoughts  are  higher  than  they 'were. 


70  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

Who  runs  may  read  this  truth,  I  say: 
Sin  travels  in  a  rumbling  car, 
While  Virtue  soars  on  like  a  star — 

The  world  grows  better  every  day. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  71 

NECESSITY. 

NT  ECESSITY,  whom  long  I  deemed  my  foe, 

Thou  cold,  unsmiling,  and  hard-visaged  dame, 
Now  I  no  longer  see  thy  face,  I  know 
Thou  wert  my  friend  beyond  reproach  or  blame. 

My  best  achievements  and  the  fairest  flights 
Of  my  winged  fancy  were  inspired  by  thee; 

Thy  stern  voice  stirred  me  to  the  mountain  heights; 
Thy  importunings  bade  me  do  and  be. 

But  for  thy  breath,  the  spark  of  living  fire 
Within  me  might  have  smoldered  out  at  length; 

But  for  thy  lash  which  would  not  let  me  tire, 
I  never  would  have  measured  my  own  strength. 

But  for  thine  ofttimes  merciless  control 
Upon  my  life,  that  nerved  me  past  despair, 

I  never  should  have  dug  deep  in  my  soul 
And  found  the  mine  of  treasures  hidden  there. 


72  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

And  though  we  walk  divided  pathways  now, 
And  I  no  more  may  see  thee,  to  the  end, 

I  weave  this  little  chaplet  for  thy  brow, 
That  other  hearts  may  know,  and  hail  thee  friend. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  73 


ACHIEVEMENT. 

THRUST  in  thine  own  -untried  capacity 

As  thou  wouldst  trust  in  God  Himself.     Thy 

soul 

Is  but  an  emanation  from  the  whole. 
Thou  dost  not  dream  what  forces  lie  in  thee, 
Vast  and  unfathomed  as  the  grandest  sea. 

Thy  silent  mind  o'er  diamond  caves  may  roll, 
Go  seek  them — but  let  pilot  will  control 
Those  passions  which  thy  favoring  winds  can  be. 

No  man  shall  place  a  limit  in  thy  strength; 
Such  triumphs  as  no  mortal  ever  gained 
May  yet  be  thine  if  thou  wilt  but  believe 

In  thy  Creator  and  thyself.     At  length 

Some  feet  will  tread  all  heights  now  unattained — 
Why  not  thine  own?     Press  on;  achieve!  achieve! 


74  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE, 

•  BELIEF. 

r  I  5HE  pain  we  have  to  suffer  seems  so  broad, 
*•      Set  side  by  side  with  this  life's  narrow  span, 
We  need  no  greater  evidence  that  God 
Has  some  diviner  destiny  for  man. 

He  would  not  deem  it  worth  His  while  to  send 
Such  crushing  sorrows  as  pursue  us  here, 

Unless  beyond  this  fleeting  journey's  end 
Our  chastened  spirits  found  another  sphere. 

So  small  this  world!     So  vast  its  agonies! 

A  future  life  is  needed  to  adjust 
These  ill-proportioned,  wide  discrepancies 

Between  the  spirit  and  its  frame  of  dust. 

So  when  my  soul  writhes  with  some  aching  grief. 
And  all  my  heart-strings  tremble  at  the  strain, 

My  Reason  lends  new  courage  to  Belief, 
And  all  God's  hidden  purposes  seem  plain. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  75 


WHATEVER   IS  — IS   BEST. 

T   KNOW  as  my  life  grows  older, 

Arid  mine  eyes  have  clearer  sight — 
That  under  each  rank  wrong,  somewhere 

There  lies  the  root  of  Right; 
That  each  sorrow  has  its  purpose, 

By  the  sorrowing  oft  unguessed, 
But  as  sure  as  the  sun  brings  morning, 

Whatever  is — is  best. 

I  know  that  each  sinful  action, 

As  sure  as  the  night  brings  shade, 
Is  somewhere,  sometime  punished, 

Tho'  the  hour  be  long  delayed. 
I  know  that  the  soul  is  aided 

Sometimes  by  the  heart's  unrest, 
And  to  grow  means  often  to  suffer — 

But  whatever  is — is  best. 


76  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

J  know  there  are  no  errors, 

In  the  great  Eternal  plan, 
And  ali  things  work  together 

For  the  final  good  of  man. 
And  I  know  when  my  soul  speeds  onward, 

In  its  grand  Eternal  quest, 
I  shall  say  as  I  look  back  earthward, 

Whatever  is — is  best. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  71? 

PEACE  AT  THE  GOAL. 

the  soul  of  a  man  who  was  homeless 
Came  the  deathless  song  of  home. 
And  the  praises  of  rest  are  chanted  best 
By  those  who  are  forced  to  roam. 

In  a  time  of  fast  and  hunger, 

We  can  talk  over  feasts  divine; 
But  the  banquet  done,  why,  where  is  the  one 

Who  can  tell  you  the  taste  of  the  wine? 

We  think  of  the  mountain's  grandeur 

As  we  walk  in  the  heat  afar — 
But  when  we  sit  in  the  shadows  of  it 

We  think  how  at  rest  we  are. 

With  the  voice  of  the  craving  passions 

We  can  picture  a  love  to  come. 
But  the  heart  once  filled,  lo,  the  voice  is  stilled, 

And  we*^tand  in  the  silence — dumb. 


78  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

THE  LAW. 

T     IFE  is  a  Shylock;  always  it  demands 

•'"-'    The  fullest  usurer's  interest  for  each  pleasure. 

Gifts  are  not  freely  scattered  by  its  hands; 

We  make  returns  for  every  borrowed  treasure. 

Each  talent,  each  achievement,  and  each  gain 
Necessitates  some  penalty  to  pay. 
Delight  imposes  lassitude  and  pain, 
As  certainly  as  darkness  follows  day. 

All  you  bestow  on  causes  or  on  men, 
Of  love  or  hate,  of  malice  or  devotion, 
Somehow,  sometime,  shall  be  returned  again — 
There  is  no  wasted  toil,  no  lost  emotion. 

The  motto  of  the  world  is  give  and  take. 
It  gives  you  favors — out  of  sheer  goodwill. 
But  unless  speedy  recompense  you  make, 
You'll  find  yourself  presented  with  iis  bill. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  79 

When  rapture  comes  to  thrill  the  heart  of  you, 
Take  it  with  tempered  gratitude.     Remember, 
Some  later  time  the  interest  will  fall  due. 
No  year  brings  June  that  does  not  bring  December, 


80  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


RECOMPENSE. 

Q  TRAIGHT  through  my  heart  this  fact  to-day, 
^     By  Truth's  own  hand  is  driven: 
God  never  takes  one  thing  away, 
But  something  else  is  given. 

I  did  not  know  in  earlier  years, 

This  law  of  love  and  kindness; 
I  only  mourned  through  bitter  tears 

My  loss,  in  sorrow's  blindness. 

But,  ever  following  each  regret 

O'er  some  departed  treasure, 
My  sad  repining  heart  was  met 

With  unexpected  pleasure. 

I  thought  it  only  happened  so; 

But  Time  this  truth  has  taught  me — 
No  least  thing  from  my  life  can  go, 

But  something  else  is  brought  me. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  81 


It  is  the  Law,  complete,  sublime; 

And  now  with  Faith  unshaken, 
In  patience  I  but  bide  my  time, 

When  any  joy  is  taken. 

No  matter  if  the  crushing  blow 
May  for  the  moment  down  me, 

Still,  back  of  it  waits  Love,  I  know, 
With  some  new  gift  to  crown  me. 


82  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


DESIRE. 

N  TO  joy  for  which  thy  hungering  heart  has  panted, 

No  hope  it  cherishes  through  waiting  years, 
But  if  thou  dost  deserve  it,  shall  be  granted 
For  with  each  passionate  wish  the  blessing  nears. 

Tune  up  the  fine,  strong  instrument  of  thy  being 
To  chord  with  thy  dear  hope,  and  do  not  tire. 
When  both  in  key  and  rhythm  are  agreeing, 
Lo!  thou  shalt  kiss  the  lips  of  thy  desire. 

The  thing  thou  cravest  so  waits  in  the  distance, 
Wrapt  in  the  silences,  unseen  and  dumb: 
Essential  to  thy  soul  and  thy  existence — 
Live  worthy  of  it — call,  and  it  shall  come. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  83 

DEATHLESS. 

'HP  HERE  lies  in  the  center  of  each  man's  heart, 
A  longing  and  love  for  the  good  and  pure; 
And  if  but  an  atom,  or  larger  part, 

I  tell  you  this  shall  endure — endure- 
After  the  body  has  gone  to  decay — 

Yea,  after  the  world  has  passed  away. 

» 
The  longer  I  live  and  the  more  I  see 

Of  the  struggle  of  souls  toward  the  heights  above, 
The  stronger  this  truth  comes  home  to  me : 

That  the  Universe  rests  on  the  shoulders  of  love ; 
A  love  so  limitless,  deep,  and  broad, 

That  men  have  renamed  it  and  called  it — God. 

And  nothing  that  ever  was  born  or  evolved, 

Nothing  created  by  light  or  force, 
But  deep  in  its  system  there  lies  dissolved 

A  shining  drop  from  the  Great  Love  Source; 
A  shining  drop  that  shall  live  for  aye — 

Though  kingdoms  may  perish  and  stars  decay. 


84  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE, 


KEEP  OUT  OF  THE  PAST. 

\7  EEP  out  of  the  Past!  for  its  highways 

Are  damp  with  malarial  gloom ; 
Its  gardens  are  sere  and  its  forests  are  drear. 

And  everywhere  molders  a  tomb. 
Who  seeks  to  regain  its  lost  pleasures, 

Finds  only  a  rose  turned  to  dust; 
And  its  storehouse  of  wonderful  treasures 

Are  covered  and  coated  with  rust. 

Keep  out  of  the  Past.     It  is  haunted : 

He  who  in  its  avenues  gropes, 
Shall  find  there  the  ghost  of  a  joy  prized  the  most, 

And  a  skeleton  throng  of  dead  hopes. 
In  place  of  its  beautiful  rivers, 

Are  pools  that  are  stagnant  with  slime ; 
And  these  graves  gleaming  in  a  phosphoric  light, 

Hide  dreams  that  were  slain  in  their  prime. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  85 

Keep  out  of  the  Past.     It  is  lonely, 
And  barren  and  bleak  to  the^view; 

Its  fires  have  grown  cold,  and  its  stories  are  old- 
Turn,  turn  to  the  Present — the  New: 

To-day  leads  you  up  to  the  hilltops 
That  are  kissed  by  the  radiant  sun, 

To-day  shows  no  tomb,  life's  hopes  are  in  bloom, 
And  to-day  holds  a  prize  to  be  won. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


THE  FAULT  OF  THE  AGE. 

r  I  "  HE  fault  of  the  age  is  a  mad  endeavor 

To  leap  to  heights  that  were  made  to  climb: 
By  a  burst  of  strength,  of  a  thought  most  clever, 
We  plan  to  forestall  and  outwit  Time. 

We  scorn  to  wait  for  the  thing  worth  having; 

We  want  high  noon  at  the  day's  dim  dawn; 
We  find  no  pleasure  in  toiling  and  saving, 

As  our  forefathers  did  in  the  old  times  gone. 

We  force  our  roses,  before  their  season, 
To  bloom  and  blossom  for  us  to  wear; 

And  then  we  wonder  and  ask  the  reason 
Why  perfect  buds  are  so  few  and  rare. 

We  crave  the  gain,  but  despise  the  getting; 

We  want 'wealth — not  as  reward,  but  dower; 
And  the  strength  that  is  wasted  in  useless  fretting 

Would  fell  a  forest  or  build  a  tower. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  87 

To  covet  the  prize,  yet  to  shrink  from  the  winning; 

To  thirst  for  glory,  yet  fear  to  fight; 
Why  what  can  it  lead  to  at  last  but  sinning, 

To  mental  languor  and  moral  blight? 

Better  the  old  slow  way  of  striving, 

And  counting  small  gains  when  the  year  is  done, 
Than  to  use  our  force  and  our  strength  in  contriving. 

And  to  grasp  for  pleasure  we  have  not  won. 


88  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

DISTRUST. 

ISTRUST  that  man  who  tells  you  to  distrust; 
He  takes  the  measure  of  his  own  small  soul, 
And  thinks  the  world  no  larger.       He  who  prates 
Of  human  nature's  baseness  and  deceit 
Looks  in  the  mirror  of  his  heart,  and  sees 
His  kind  therein  reflected.     Or  perchance 
The  honeyed  wine  of  life  was  turned  to  gall 
By  sorrow's  hand,  which  brimmed  his  cup  with  tears, 
And  made  all  things  seem  bitter  to  his  taste. 
Give  him  compassion!     But  be  not  afraid 
Of    nectared    Love,    or    Friendship's    strengthening 

draught, 

Nor  think  a  poison  underlies  their  sweets.         ^ 
Look  through  true  eyes — you  will  discover  truth  ^ 
Suspect  suspicion,  and  doubt  only  doubt. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  89 

ARTIST  AND  MAN. 

T^AKE  thy  life  better  than  thy  work.     Too  oft 
Our  artists  spend  their  skill  in  rounding  soft 
Fair  curves  upon  their  statues,  while  the  rough 
And  ragged  edges  of  the  unhewn  stuff 
In  their  own  natures  startle  and  offend 
The  eye  of  critic  and  the  heart  of  friend. 

If  in  thy  too  brief  day  thou  must  neglect 

Thy  labor  or  thy  life,  let  men  detect 

Flaws  in  thy  work!   while  their  most  searching  gaze 

Can  fall  on  nothing  which  they  may  not  praise 

In  thy  well  chiseled  character.     The  Man 

Should  not  be  shadowed  by  the  Artisan! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.'  93 


BABYLAND. 

T  T  AVE  you  heard  of  the  Valley  of  Babyland, 
*  ^      The  realm  where  the  dear  little  darlings  stay, 
Till  the  kind  storks  go,  as  all  men  know, 

And,  oh,  so  tenderly  bring  them  away? 
The  paths  are  winding  and  past  all  finding, 

By  all  save  the  storks  who  understand 
The  gates  and  the  highways  and  the  intricate  byways 

That  lead  to  Babyland. 

All  over  the  Valley  of  Babyland 

Sweet  flowers  bloom  in  the  soft  green  moss; 
And  under  the  ferns  fair,  and  under  the  plants  there, 

Lie  little  heads  like  spools  of  floss. 
With  a  soothing  number  the  river  of  slumber 

Flows  o'er  a  bedway  of  silver  sand; 
And  angels  are  keeping  watch  o'er  the  sleeping 

Babes  of  Babyland 


94  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

The  path  to  the  Valley  of  Babyland 

% 
Only  the  kingly,  kind  storks  know; 

If  they  fly  over  mountains,  or  wade  through  fount 
ains. 

No  man  sees  them  come  or  go. 
But  an  angel  maybe,  who  guards  some  baby, 

Or  a  fairy  perhaps,  with  her  magic  wand, 
Brings  them  straightway  to  the  wonderful  gateway 

That  leads  to  Babyland. 

And  there  in  the  Valley  of  Babyland, 
Under  the  mosses  and  leaves  and  ferns, 

Like  an  unfledged  starling,  they  find  the  darling, 
For  whom  the  heart  of  a  mother  yearns; 

And  they  lift  him  lightly,  and  snug  him  tightly 
In  feathers  soft  as  a  lady's  hand; 

And  off  with  a  rockaway  step  they  walk  away 

Out  of  Babyland. 

As  they  go  from  the  Valley  of  Babyland, 
Forth  into  the  world  of  great  unrest, 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  95 

* 

Sometimes  in  weeping,  he  wakes  from  sleeping 
Before  he  reaches  the  mother's  breast. 

Ah,  how  she  blesses  him,  how  she  caresses  him, 
Bonniest  bird  in  the  bright  home  band 

That  o'er  land  and  water,  the  kind  stork  brought  her 

From  far  off  Babyland. 


96  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

•St 

A  FACE. 

ETWEEN  the  curtains  of  snowy  lace, 

Over  the  way  is  a  baby's  face; 
It  peeps  forth,  smiling  in  merry  glee, 
And  waves  its  pink  little  hand  at  me. 

My  heart  responds  with  a  lonely  cry — 
But  in  the  wonderful  By-and-By — 

Out  from  the  window  of  God's  "To  Be," 
That  other  baby  shall  beckon  to  me. 

That  ever  haunting  and  longed-for  face, 
That  perfect  vision  of  infant  grace, 

Shall  shine  on  me  in  a  splendor  of  light, 
Never  to  fade  from  my  eager  sight. 

All  that  was  taken  shall  be  made  good; 

All  that  puzzles  me  understood; 
And  the  wee  white  hand  that  I  lost,  one  day, 

Shall  lead  me  into  the  Better  Way. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  97 

AN  OLD  COMRADE. 

A   LL  suddenly  between  me  and  the  light, 
•**•    That  brightly  shone,  and  warm, 
Robed  in  the  pall-like  garments  of  the  night, 
There  rose  a  shadowy  form. 

"Stand  back,"  I  said;  "you  quite  obscure  the  sun; 

What  do  you  want  with  me?" 
"Dost  thou  not  know,  then?"  quoth  the  mystic  one; 

"Look  on  my  face  and  see!" 

I  looked,  and,  lo!  it  was  my  old  despair, 

Robed  in  a  new  disguise; 
In  blacker  garments  than  it  used  to  wear, 

But  with  the  same  sad  eyes. 

So  ghostly  were  the  memories  it  awoke, 

I  shrank  in  fear  away. 

"Nay,   be   more   kind,"    'twas   thus   the   dark    shape 
spoke, 

"For  I  have  come  to  stay. 


98  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

"So  long  thy  feet  have  trod  on  sunny  heights, 

Such  joys  thy  heart  has  known, 
Perchance  thou  hast  forgotten  those  long  nights, 

When  we  two  watched  alone, 

"Though  sweet  and  dear  the  pleasures  thou  hast  met, 

And  comely  to  thine  eye, 
Has  one  of  them,  in  all  that  bright  throng  yet, 

Been  half  so  true  as  I? 

"And  that  last  rapture  which  ensnared  thee  so 

With  pleasure  twin  to  pain, 
It  was  the  swiftest  of  them  all  to  go — 

But  I — I  will  remain. 

"Again  we  two  will  live  a  thousand  years, 

In  desperate  nights  of  grief, 
That  shall  refuse  the  bitter  balm  of  tears, 

For  thy  bruised  heart's  relief. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  99 

"Again  we  two  will  watch  the  hopeless  dawn 

Creep  up  a  lonely  sky — 
Again  we'll  urge  the  drear  day  to  be  gone, 

Yet  dread  to  see  it  die. 

"Nay,  shrink  not  from  me,  for  I  am  thy  friend, 

One  whom  the  Master  sent; 
And  I  shall  help  thee,  ere  we  reach  the  end, 

To  find  a  great  content.  . 

"And  I  will  give  thee  courage  to  attain, 

The  heights  supremely  fair, 
Wherein  thou'lt  cry,  'How  blessed  was  my  pain! 

How  God  sent  my  Despair!'  " 


100  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

ENTRE-ACTE  REVERIES. 

T^ETWEEN  the  acts  while  the  orchestra  played 
*~-^  That  sweet  old  waltz  with  the  lilting  measure, 
I  drifted  away  to  a  dear  dead  day, 

When    the    dance,    for    me,    was    the    sum    of    all 

pleasure; 
When  my  veins  were  rife  with  the  fever  of  life, 

When  hope  ran  high  as  an  inswept  ocean, 
And  my  heart's  great  gladness  was  almost  madness, 

As  I  floated  off  to  the  music's  motion. 

How  little  I  cared  for  the  world  outside! 
How  little  I  cared  for  the  dull  day  after! 

The  thought  of  trouble  went  up  like  a  bubble, 
And  burst  in  a  sparkle  of  mirthful  laughter. 

Oh!  and  the  beat  of  it,  oh!  and  the  sweet  of  it- 
Melody,  motion,  and  young  blood  melted; 

The  dancers  swaying,  the  players  playing, 
The  air  song-deluged  and  music-pelted. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  101 

I  knew  no  weariness,  no,  not  I — 

My  step  was  as  light  as  the  waving  grasses 
That  flutter  with  ease  on  the  strong-armed  breeze, 

As  it  waltzes  over  the  wild  morasses. 
Life  was  all  sound  and  swing;  youth  was  a  perfect 
thing; 

Night  was  the  goddess  of  satisfaction. 
Oh,  how  I  tripped  away,  right  to  the  edge  of  day! 

Joy  lay  in  motion,  and  rest  lay  in  action. 

I  dance  no  more  on  the  music's  wave, 

I  yield  no  more  to  its  wildering  power, 
That  time  has  flown  like  a  rose  that  is  blown, 

Yet  life  is  a  garden  forever  in  flower. 
Though  storms  of  tears  have  watered  the  years, 

Between  to-day  and  the  day  departed, 
Though  trials  have  met  me,  and  grief's  waves  wet  me, 

And  I  have  been  tired  and  trouble-hearted. 

Though  under  the  sod  of  a  wee  green  grave, 
A  great,  sweet  hope  in  darkness  perished, 


102  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

Yet  life,  to  my  thinking,  is  a  cup  worth  drinking, 
A  gift  to  be  glad  of,  and  loved,  and  cherished. 

There  is  deeper  pleasure  in  the  slower  measure 
That  Time's  grand  orchestra  now  is  playing. 

Its  mellowed  minor  is  sadder  but  finer, 

And  life  grows  daily  more  worth  the  living. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  103 


A  PLEA. 

/COLUMBIA,  large-hearted  and  tender, 

^^     Too  long  for  the  good  of  your  kin 

You  have  shared  your  home's  comfort  and  splendor 

With  all.  who  have  asked  to  come  in. 
The  smile  of  your  true  eyes  has  lighted 

The  way  to  your  wide-open  door. 
You  have  held  out  full  hands,  and  invited 

The  beggar  to  take  from  your  store. 

Your  overrun  proud  sister  nations, 

Whose  offspring  you  help  them  to  keep, 
Are  sending  their  poorest  relations, 

Their  unruly  vicious  black  sheep; 
Unwashed  and  unlettered  you  take  them, 

And  lo!  we  are  pushed  from  your  knee; 
We  are  governed  by  laws  as  they  make  them, 

We  are  slaves  in  the  land  of  the  free. 


104  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

Columbia,  you  know  the*devotion 

Of  those  who  have  sprung  from  your  soil; 
Shall  aliens,  born  over  the  ocean, 

Dispute  us  the  fruits  of  our  toil? 
Most  noble  and  gracious  of  mothers, 

Your  children  rise  up  and  demand 
That  you  bring  us  no  more  foster  brothers, 

To  breed  discontent  in  the.  land. 

Be  prudent  before  you  are  zealous, 

Not  generous  only — but  just.      » 
Our  hearts  are  grown  wrathful  and  jealous 

Toward  those  who  have  outraged  your  trust. 
They  jostle  and  crowd  in  our  places, 

They  sneer  at  the  comforts  you  gave. 
We  say,  shut  the  door  in  their  faces — 

Until  they  have  learned  to  behave! 

In  hearts  that  are  greedy  and  hateful, 
They  harbor  ill-will  and  deceit; 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  105 

They  ask  for  more  favors,  ungrateful 
For  those  you  have  poured  at  their  feet. 

Rise  up  in  your  grandeur,  and  straightway 
Bar  out  the  bold,  clamoring  mass; 

Let  sentinels  stand  at  your  gateway, 
To  see  who  is  worthy  to  pass. 

Give  first  to  your  own  faithful  toilers 

The  freedom  our  birthright  should  claim, 
And  take  from  these  ruthless  despoilers 

The  power  whicji  they  use  to  our  shame. 
Columbia,  too  long  you  have  dallied 

With  foes  whom  you  feed  from  your  store; 
It  is  time  that  your  wardens  were  rallied, 

And  stationed  outside  the  locked  door. 


106  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


THE  ROOM  BENEATH  THE  RAFTERS. 

0  OMETIMES  when  I  have  dropped  to  sleep, 
^    Draped  in  a  soft  luxurious  gloom, 

Across  my  drowsing,  mind  will  creep 

The  memory  of  another  room, 
Where  resinous  knots  in  roof  boards  made 
A  frescoing  of  light  and  shade, 
And  sighing  poplars  brushed  their  leaves 
Against  the  humbly  sloping  eaves. 

Again  I  fancy,  in  my  dreams, 
I'm  lying  in  my  trundle  bed; 

1  seem  to  see  the  bare  old  beams 
And  unhewn  rafters  overhead. 

The  mud  wasp's  shrill  falsetto  hum 

I  hear  again,  and  see  him  come 

Forth  from  his  dark-walled  hanging  house, 

Dressed  in  his  black  and  yellow  blouse. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  107 

There,  summer  dawns,  in  sleep  I  stirred, 
•    And  wove  into  my  fair  dream's  woof 
The  chattering  of  a  martin  bird, 

Or  rain-drops  pattering  on  the  roof. 
Or  half  awake,  and  half  in  fear, 
I  saw  the  spider  spinning  near 
His  pretty  castle  where  the  fly 

Should  come  to  ruin  by-and-by. 

i 

And  there  I  fashioned  from  my  brain 
Youth's  shining  structures  in  the  air. 

I  did  not  wholly  build  in  vain, 

For  some  were  lasting,  firm  and  fair. 

And  I  am  one  who  lives  to  say 

My  life  has  held  more  gold  than  gray, 

And  that  the  splendor  of  the  real 

Surpassed  my  early  dream's  ideal. 

But  still  I  love  to  wander  back 

To  that  old  time  and  that  old  place; 


106  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


THE  ROOM  BENEATH  THE  RAFTERS. 

0  OMETIMES  when  I  have  dropped  to  sleep, 
^    Draped  in  a  soft  luxurious  gloom, 

Across  my  drowsing,  mind  will  creep 

The  memory  of  another  room, 
Where  resinous  knots  in  roof  boards  made 
A  frescoing  of  light  and  shade, 
And  sighing  poplars  brushed  their  leaves 
Against  the  humbly  sloping  eaves. 

Again  I  fancy,  in  my  dreams, 
I'm  lying  in  my  trundle  bed; 

1  seem  to  see  the  bare  old  beams 
And  unhewn  rafters  overhead. 

The  mud  wasp's  shrill  falsetto  hum 

I  hear  again,  and  see  him  come 

Forth  from  his  dark-walled  hanging  house, 

Dressed  in  his  black  and  vellow  blouse. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  107 

There,  summer  dawns,  in  sleep  I  stirred, 
•    And  wove  into  my  fair  dream's  woof 
The  chattering  of  a  martin  bird, 

Or  rain-drops  pattering  on  the  roof. 
Or  half  awake,  and  half  in  fear, 
I  saw  the  spider  spinning  near 
His  pretty  castle  where  the  fly 

Should  come  to  ruin  by-and-by. 

t 

And  there  I  fashioned  from  my  brain 
Youth's  shining  structures  in  the  air. 

I  did  not  wholly  build  in  vain, 

For  some  were  lasting,  firm  and  fair. 

And  I  am  one  who  lives  to  say 

My  life  has  held  more  gold  than  gray, 

And  that  the  splendor  of  the  real 

Surpassed  my  early  dream's  ideal. 

But  still  I  love  to  wander  back 

To  that  old  time  and  that  old  place; 


110  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

She  was  my  heart's  loved  idle  and  my  pride. 

I  taught  her  all  those  graces  which  you  praise, 
I  dreamed  of  coming  years,  when  at  my  side 

She  should  lend  luster  to  my  fading  days, 
Should  cling  to  me  (as  she  to  you  clings  now), 
The  young  fruit  hanging  to  the  withered  bough. 
But  lo!  the  blossom  was  so  fair  a  sight, 
You  plucked  it  from  me — for  your  own  delight. 

Well,  you  are  worthy  of  her — oh,  thank  God — 

And  yet  I  think  you  do  not  realize 
How  burning  were  the  sands  o'er  which  I  trod, 

To  bear  and  rear  this  woman  you  so  prize. 
It  was  no  easy  thing  to  see  her  go — 
Even  into  the  arms  of  the  one  she  worshiped  so. 

How  strong,  how  vast,  how  awful  seems  the  power 
Of  this  new  love  which  fills  a  maiden's  heart, 

For  one  who  never  bore  a  single  hour 
Of  pain  for  her;  which  tears  her  life  apart 

From  all  its  moorings,  and  controls  her  more 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE,  111 

Than  all  the  ties  the  years  have  held  before ; 
Which  crowns  a  stranger  with  a  kingly  grace — 
And  give  the  one  who  bore  her — second  place! 

She  loves  me  still!  and  yet,  were  Death  to  say, 

"Choose  now  between  them!"  you  would  be  her 
choice. 

God  mearit  it  to  be  so — it  is  His  way. 
But  can  you  wonder  if,  while  I  rejoice 

In  her  content,  this  thought  hurts  like  a  knife — 

"No  longer  necessary  to  her  life!" 

My  pleasure  in  her  joy  is  bitter  sweet. 

Your  very  goodness  sometimes  hurts  my  heart, 
Because,  for  her,  life's  drama  seems  complete 

Without  the  mother's  oft-repeated  part. 
Be  patient  with  me!  She  was  mine  so  long 
Who  now  is  yours.     One  must  indeed  be  strong, 
To  meet  the  loss  without  the  least  regret. 
And  so,  forgive  me,  if  my  eyes  are  wet. 


112  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

AN  OLD  FAN. 

(TO   KITTY.      HER   REVERIE.) 

T  T  is  soiled  and  quite  passe, 

Broken  too,  and  out  of  fashion, 
But  it  stirs  my  heart  some  way, 
As  I  hold  it  here  to-day, 
With  a  dead  year's  grace  and  passion. 
Oh,  my  pretty  fan! 

Precious  dream  and  thrilling  strain, 

Rise  up  from  that  vanished  season; 
Back  to  heart  and  nerve  and  brain 
Sweeps  the  joy  as  keen  as  pain, 
Joy  that  asks  no  cause  or  reason. 
Oh,  my  dainty  fan! 

Hopes  that  perished  in  a  night 
Gaze  at  me  like  spectral  faces; 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  113 

Grim  despair  and  lost  delight, 
Sorrow  long  since  gone  from  sight — 
All  are  hiding  in  these  laces. 
Oh,  my  broken  fan! 

Let  us  lay  the  thing  away — 

I  am  sadder  now  and  older; 
Fled  the  ball-room  and  the  play — 
You  have  had  your  foolish  day, 
And  the  night  and  life  are  colder. 

Exit— little  fan! 


114  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

NO  CLASSES! 

NT  O  classes  here!  Why,  that  is  idle  talk. 

The  village  beau  sneers  at  the  country  boor; 
The  importuning  mendicants  who  walk 
Our  cities'  streets  despise  the  parish  poor. 

The  daily  toiler  at  some  noisy  loom 

Holds  back  her  garments  from  the  kitchen  aid. 
Meanwhile  the  latter  leans  upon  her  broom, 

Unconscious  of  the  bow  the  laundress  made. 

The  grocer's  daughter  eyes  the  farmer's  lass 
With  haughty  glances;  and  the  lawyer's  wife 

Would  pay  no  visits  to  the  trading  class, 
If  policy  were  not  her  creed  in  life. 

The  merchant's  son  nods  coldly  at  the  clerk; 

The  proud  possessor  of  a  pedigree 
Ignores  the  youth  whose  father  rose  by  work; 

The  title-seeking  maiden  scorns  all  three. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  115 

The  aristocracy  of  blood  looks  down 

Upon  the  "nouveau  riche;"  and  in  disdain, 
The  lovers  of  the  intellectual  frown 

On  both,  and  worship  at  the  shrine  of  brain. 
? 

"No  classes  here,"  the  clergyman  has  said; 

"We  are  one  family."     Yet  see  his  rage 
And  horror  when  h's  favorite  son  would  wed 

Some  pure  and  pretty  player  on  the  stage. 

It  is  the  vain  but  natural  human  way 

Of  vaunting  our  weak  selves,  our  pride,  our  worth! 
Not  till  the  long-delayed  millennial  day 

Shall  we  behold  "no  classes"  on  God's  earth. 


116  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


A  GRAY  MOOD. 

A   S  we  hurry  away  to  the  end,  my  friend, 
**     Of  this  sad  little  farce  called  existence, 
We  are  sure  that  the  future  will  bring  one  thing, 

And  that  is  the  grave  in  the  distance. 
And  so  when  our  lives  run  along  all  wrong, 

And  nothing  seems  real  or  certain, 
We  can  comfort  ourselves  with  the  thought  (or  not) 

Of  that  specter  behind  the  curtain. 

But  we  haven't  much  time  to  repine  or  whine, 

Or  to  wound  or' jostle  each  other; 
And  the  hour  for  us  each  is  to-day,  I  say, 

If  we  mean  to  assist  a  brother. 
And  there  is  no  pleasure  that  earth  gives  birth, 

But  the  worry  it  brings  is  double; 
And  all  that  repays  for  the  strife  of  life, 

Is  helping  some  soul  in  trouble. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  117 

I  tell  you,  if  I  could  go  back  the  track 

To  my  life's  morning  hour, 
I  would  not  set  forth  seeking  name  or  fame, 

Or  that  poor  bauble  called  power. 
I  would  be  like  the  sunlight,  and  live  to  give; 

I  would  lend  but  L  would  not  borrow; 
Nor  would  I  be  blind  and  complain  of  pain, 

Forgetting  the  meaning  of  sorrow. 

This  world  is  a  vaporous  jest  at  best, 

Tossed  off  by  the  gods  in  laughter; 
And  a  cruel  attempt  at  wit  were  it, 

If  nothing  better  came  after. 
It  is  reeking  with  hearts  that  ache  and  break, 

Which  we  ought  to  comfort  and  strengthen, 
As  we  hurry  away  to  the  end,  my  friend, 

And  the  shadows  behind  us  lengthen. 


118  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


AT  AN  OLD  DRAWER. 

r^EFORE  this  scarf  was  faded, 
*""'     What  hours  of  mirth  it  knew: 
How  gaily  it  paraded 

V 

For  smiling  eyes  to  view! 
The  days  were  tinged  with  glory, 

The  nights  too  quickly  sped, 
And  life  was  like  a  story 

Where  all  the  people  wed. 

Before  this  rosebud  wilted, 

How  passionately  sweet 
The  wild  waltz  swelled  and  lilted 

In  time  for  flying  feet! 
How  loud  the  bassoons  muttered! 

The  horns  grew  madly  shrill; 
And,  oh,  the  vows  lips  uttered 

That  hearts  could  not  fulfill. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  119 

Before  this  fan  was  broken, 

Behind  its  lace  and  pearl 
What  whispered  words  were  spoken — 

What  hearts  were  in  a  whirl! 
What  homesteads  were  selected 

In  Fancy's  realm  of  Spain! 
What  castles  were  erected, 

Without  a  room  for  pain! 

When  this  odd  glove  was  mated, 

How  thrilling  seemed  the  play! 
May  be  our  hearts  are  sated — 

They  tire  so  soon  to-day. 
Oh,  shut  away  those  treasures, 

They  speak  the  dreary  truth — 
We  have  outgrown  the  pleasures 

And  keen  delights  of  youth. 


120  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

THE  OLD   STAGE  QUEEN. 

ACK  in  the  box  by  the  curtains  shaded, 

She  sits  alone  by  the  house  unseen ; 
Her  eye  is  dim,  her  cheek  is  faded, 

She  who  was  once  the"  people's  queen. 

The  curtain  rolls  up,  and  she  sees  before  her 
A  vision  of  beauty  and  youth  and  grace. 

Ah!  no  wonder  all  hearts  adore  her, 
Silver-throated  and  fair  of  face. 

Out  of  her  box  she  leans  and  listens; 

Oh,  is  it  with  pleasure  or  with  despair 
That  her  thin  cheek  pales  and  her  dim  eye  glistens, 

While  that  fresh  young  voice  sings  the  grand  old 
air? 

She  is  back  again  in  the  Past's  bright  splendor — 
When  life  seemed  worth  living,  and  love  a  truth, 

Ere  Time  had  told  her  she  must  surrender 
Her  double  dower  of  fame  and  youth. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  121 

It  is  she  herself  who  stands  there  singing 
To  that  sea  of  faces  that  shines  and  stirs; 

And  the  cheers  on  cheers  that  go  up  ringing 
And  rousing  the  echoes — are  hers — all  hers. 

Just  for  one  moment  the  sweet  delusion 
Quickens  her  pulses  and  blurs  her  sight, 

And  wakes  within  her  that  wild  confusion 
Of  joy  that  is  anguish  and  fierce  delight. 

Then    the    curtain    goes    down    and    the    lights    are 

gleaming 
Brightly  o'er  circle  and  box  and  stall. 

She  starts  like  a  sleeper  who  wakes  from  dreaming— 
Her  past  lies  under  a  funeral  pall. 

Her  day  is  dead  and  her  star  descended 

Never  to  rise  or  shine  again; 
Her  reign  is  over — her  Queenship  ended — 

A  new  name  is  sounded  and  sung  by  men. 


122  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

All  the  glitter  and  glow  and  splendor, 

All  the  glory  of  that  lost  day, 

With  the  friends  that  seemed  true,  and  the  love  that 
seemed  tender, 

Why,  what  is  it  all  but  a  dead  bouquet? 

She  rises  to  go.     Has  the  night  turned  colder? 

The  new  Queen  answers  to  call  and  shout; 
And  the  old  Queen  looks  back  over  her  shoulder, 

Then  all  unnoticed  she  passes  out. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  123 


FAITH. 

T  WILL  not  doubt,  though  all  my  ships  at  sea 

*      Come  drifting  home  with  broken  masts  and  sails; 

I  shall  believe  the  Hand  which  never  fails, 

From  seeming  evil  worketh  good  for  me; 
And  though  I  weep  because  those  sails  are  battered. 

Still  will  I  cry,  while  my  best  hopes  lie  shattered, 

"I  trust  in  thee." 

I  will  not  doubt,  though  all  my  prayers  return 
Unanswered  from  the  still,  white  Realm  above; 

I  shall  believe  it  is  an  all-wise  Love 

Which  has  refused  those  things  for  which  I  yearn; 

And  though  at  times  I  cannot  keep  from  grieving, 
Yet  the  pure  ardor  of  my  fixed  believing 

Undimmed  shall  burn. 

I  will  not  doubt,  though  sorrows  fall  like  rain, 
And  troubles  swarm  like  bees  about  a  hive; 


124  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

I  shall  believe  the  heights  for  which  I  strive 
Are  only  reached  by  anguish  and  by  pain; 

And  though  I  groan  and  tremble  with  my  crosses, 
I  yet  shall  see,  through  my  severest  losses, 

The  greater  gain. 

I  will  not  doubt;  well  anchored  in  the  faith, 

Like  some  staunch  ship,  my  soul  braves  every  gale, 

So  strong  its  courage  that  it  will  not  fail 

To  breast  the  mighty  unknown  sea  of  Death. 

Oh,  may  I  cry  when  body  parts  with  spirit, 
"I  do  not  doubt,"  so  listening  worlds  may  hear  it, 

With  my  last  breath. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  125 


THE  TRUE  KNIGHT. 

A  \  T  E  sigh  above  historic  pages, 

*  ^      Brave  with  the  deeds  of  courtly  men, 
And  wish  those  peers  of  middle  ages 

In  our  dull  day  could  live  again. 
And  yet  no  knight  or  Troubadour  began 
In  chivalry  with  the  American. 

He  does  not  frequent  joust  or  tourney, 

And  flaunt  his  lady's  colors  there; 
But  in  the  tedium  of  a  journey, 

He  shows  that  deferential  care — 
That  thoughtful  kindness  to  the  sex  at  large, 
Which  makes  each  woman  feel  herself  his  charge. 

He  does  not  challenge  foes  to  duel, 

To  win  his  lady's  cast-off  glove, 
But  proves  in  ways  less  rash  and  cruel, 

The  truth  and  fervor  of  his  love. 


126  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

Not  by  bold  deeds,  but  by  his  reverent  mien, 
He  pays  his  public  tribute  to  his  Queen. 

He  may  not  shine  with  courtly  graces, 

But  yet,  his  kind,  respectful  air 
To  woman,  whatsoe'er  her  place  is, 

It  might  be  well  if  kings  could  share. 
So,'  for  the  chivalric  true  gentleman, 
Give  me,  I  say,  our  own  American. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  127 

THE  CITY. 

I  OWN  the  charms  of  lovely  Nature ;  still, 
*      In  human  nature  more  delight  I  find. 
Though  sweet  the  murmuring  voices  of  the  rill, 
I  much  prefer  the  voices  of  my  kind. 

I  like  the  roar  of  cities.     In  the  mart, 

Where  busy  toilers  strive  for  place  and  gain, 

I  seem  to  read  humanity's  great  heart,  . 

And  share  its  hopes,  its  pleasures,  and  its  pain. 

The  rush  of  hurrying  trains  that  cannot  wait, 
The  tread  of  myriad  feet,  all  say  to  me: 

''You  are  the  architect  of  your  own  fate; 
Toil  on,  hope  on,  and  dare  to  do  and  be." 

I  like  the  jangled  music  of  the  loud 
Bold  bells;  the  whistle's  sudden  shrill  reply; 

And  there  is  inspiration  in  a  crowd — 
A  magnetism  flashed  from  eye  to  eye. 


128  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

My  sorrows  all  seem  lightened  and  my  joys 

Augmented  when  the  comrade  world  walks  near; 

Close  to  mankind  my  soul  best  keeps  its^poise. 
Give  me  the  great  town's  bustle,  strife,  and  noise 
And  let  who  will,  hold  Nature's  calm  more  dear. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  129 

WOMAN. 

IVE  us  that  grand  word  "woman"  once  again, 

And  let's  have  done  with  "lady":  one's  a  term 
Full  of  fine  force,  strong,  beautiful,  and  firm, 
Fit  for  the  noblest  use  of  tongue  or  pen ; 
And  one's  a  word  for  lackeys.     One  suggests 
The  Mother,  Wife,  and  Sister!     One  the  dame 
Whose  costly  robe,  mayhap,  gives  her  the  name. 
One  word  upon  its  own  strength  leans  and  rests; 
The  other  minces  tiptoe.     Who  would  be 
The  perfect  woman  must  grow  brave  of  heart 
And  broad  of  soul  to  play  her  troubled  part 
Well  in  life's  drama.     While  each  day  we  see 
The  "perfect  lady"  skilled  in  what  to  do 
And  what  to  say,  grace  in  each  tone  and  act 
(Tis  taught  in  schools,  but  needs  some  native  tact), 
Yet  narrow  in  her  mind  as  in  her  shoe. 
Give  the  first  place  then  to  the  nobler  phrase, 
And  leave  the  lesser  word  for  lesser  praise. 

9 


130  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


THE  SOUL'S  FAREWELL  TO  THE  BODY. 

00  we  must  part  forever;  and  although 

^    I  long  have  beat  my  wings  and  cried  to  go, 
Free  from  your  narrow  limiting  control, 
Forth  into  space,  the  true  home  of  the  soul, 

Yet  now,  yet  now  that  hour  is  drawing  near, 

1  pause  reluctant,  finding  you  so  dear. 
All  joys  await  me  in  the  realm  of  God — 
Must  you,  my  comrade,  moulder  in  the  sod? 

I  was  your  captive,  yet  you  were  my  slave : 
Your  prisoner,  yet  obedience  you  gave 
To  all  my  earnest  wishes  and  commands. 
Now  to  the  worm  I  leave  those  willing  hands 

That  toiled  for  me  or  held  the  books  I  read, 
Those  feet  that  trod  where'er  I  wished  to  tread, 
Those  arms  that  clasped  my  dear  ones,  and  the  breast 
On  which  one  loved  and  loving  heart  found  rest, 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  131 

Those  lips  through  which  my  prayers  to  God  have 

risen, 

Those  eyes  that  were  the  windows  to  my  prison. 
From  these, .all  these,  Death's  Angel  bids  me  sever; 
Dear  Comrade  Body,  fare  thee  well  forever! 

I  go  to  my  inheritance,  and  go 

With  joy  that  only  the  freed  soul  can  know; 

Yet  in  my  spirit  wanderings  I  trust 

I  may  sometimes  pause  near  your  sacred  dust. 


132  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

THIMBLE  ISLANDS. 

(OFF   LONG  ISLAND   SOUND.) 

ETWEEN  the  shore  and  the  distant  sky-lands, 
Where   a  ship's  dim   shape   seems   etched   on 

space, 

There  lies  this  cluster  of  lovely  islands, 
Like  laughing  mermaids  grouped  in  grace. 

I  look  out  over  the  waves  and  wonder, 
Are  they  not  sirens  who  dwell  in  the  sea? 

When  the  tide  runs  high  they  dip  down  under 
Like  mirthful  bathers  who  sport  in  glee. 

When  the  tide  runs  low  they  lift  their  shoulders 

Above  the  billows  and  gayly  spread 
Their  soft  green  garments  along  the  boulders 

Of  grim  gray  granite  that  form  their  bed. 

Close  by  the  group,  in  sheltered  places, 
Many  a  ship  at  anchor  lies, 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  133 

And  drinks  the  charm  of  their  smiling  faces, 
As  lovers  drink  smiles  from  maidens'  eyes. 

But  true  to  the  harsh  and  stern  old  ocean, 

As  maids  in  a  harem  are  true  to  one, 
They  give  him  all  of  their  hearts'  devotion, 

Though  wooed  forever  by  moon  and  sun. 

A  ship  sails  on  that  has  bravely  waded 
Through  foaming  billows  to  sue  in  vain; 

A  whip-poor-will  flies  that  has  serenaded 
And  sung  unanswered  his  plaintive  strain. 

In  the  sea's  great  arms  I  see  them  lying, 
Bright  and  beaming  and  fond  and  fair, 

While  the  jealous  July  day  is  dying 
In  a  crimson  fury  of  mad  despair. 

The  desolate  moon  drifts  slowly  over, 

And  covers  its  face  with  the  lace  of  a  cloud, 
While  the  sea,  like  a  glad  triumphant  lover, 
Clasps  close  his  islands  and  laughs  aloud. 


134  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


MY  GRAVE. 

T  F,  when  I  die,  I  must  be  buried,  let 

No  cemetery  engulph  me — no  lone  grot, 
Where  the  great  palpitating  world  comes  not, 
Save  when,  with  heart  bowed  down  and  eyelids  wet, 
It  pays  its  last  sad  melancholy  debt 
To  some  outjourneying  pilgrim.     May  my  lot 
Be  rather  to  lie  in  some  much-used  spot, 
Where  human  life,  with  all  its  noise  and  fret, 
Throbs  on  about  me.     Let  the  roll  of  wheels, 
With  all  earth's  sounds  of  pleasure,  commerce,  love. 
And  rush  of  hurrying  feet  surge  o'er  my  head. 
Even  in  my  grave  I  shall  be  one  who  feels 
Close  kinship  with  the  pulsing  world  above; 
And  too  deep  silence  would  distress  me,  dead. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  135 

REFUTED. 
''Anticipation   is   sweeter  than   realization." 

I  T  may  be,  yet  I  have  not  found  it  so. 

*     In  those  first  golden  dreams  of  future  fame 

I  did  not  find  such  happiness  as  came 
When  toil  was  crowned  with  triumph.     Now  I  know 
My  words  have  recognition  and  will  go 

Straight  to  some  listening  heart  my  early  aim 

To  win  the  idle  glory  of  a  name 
Pales  like  a  candle  in  the  noonday's  glow. 

So  with  the  deeper  joys  of  which  I  dreamed: 

Life  yields  more  rapture  than  did  childhood's  fan 
cies, 
And  each  year  brings  more  pleasure  than  I  waited. 

Friendship  proves  truer  than  of  old  it  seemed, 
And,  all  beyond  youth's  passion-hued  romances, 
Love  is  more  perfect  than  anticipated. 


136  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


THE  LOST  LAND. 

r  I  ^  HERE  is  a  story  of  a  beauteous  land, 
•*•       Where   fields  were   fertile   and   where   flowers 

were  bright; 

Where  tall  towers  glistened  in  the  morning  light, 
Where  happy  children  wandered  hand  in  hand, 
Where  lovers  wrote  their  names  upon  the  sand. 
They  say  it  vanished  from  all  human  sight, 
The  hungry  sea  devoured  it  in  a  night. 
You  doubt  the  tale?  ah,  you  will  understand; 
For,  as  men  muse  upon  that  fable  old, 
They  give  sad  credence  always  at  the  last, 
However  they  have  caviled  at  its  truth, 
When  with  a  tear-dimmed  vision  they  behold, 
Swift  sinking  in  the  ocean  of  the  Past, 
The  lovely  lost  Atlantis  of  their  Youth. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  137 


THE  SOUTH. 

A     QUEEN  of  indolence  and  idle  grace, 
•**•     Robed  in  the  vestments  of  a  costly  gown, 
She  turns  the  languor  of  her  lovely  face 

Upon  progression  with  a  lazy  frown. 

Her  throne  is  built  upon  a  marshy  down; 
Malarial  mosses  wreathe  her  like  old  lace; 

With  slim  crossed  feet, unshod  and  bare  and  brown. 
She  sits  indifferent  to  the  world's  swift  race. 
Across  the  seas  there  stalks  an  ogre  grim: 

Too  languid  she  for  even  fear's  alarms, 

While  frightened  nations  rally  in  defence, 
She  lifts  her  smiling  Creole  eyes  to  him, 

And  reaching  out  her  shapely  unwashed  arms, 

She  clasps  her  rightful  lover — Pestilence. 


138  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


s 


A  SAILOR'S  WIFE. 

(HER  MEMORY.) 
UN  in  my  lattice,  and  sun  on  the  sea 


(Oh,  but  the  sun  is  fair), 
And  a  sky  of  blue  and  a  sea  of  green, 
And  a  ship  with  a  white,  white  sail  between, 

And  a  light  wind  blowing  free — 
And  back  from  the  stern,  and  forth  from  the  land, 
The  last  farewell  of  a  waving  hand. 

Mist  on  the  window  and  mist  on  the  sea 

(Oh,  but  the  mist  is  gray), 
And  the  weird,  tall  shape  of  a  spectral  mast 
Gleams  out  of  the  fog  like  a  ghost  of  my  past, 

And  the  old  hope  stirs  in  me — 
The  old,  old  hope  that  warred  with  doubt, 
While  the  years  with  the  tides  surged  in  and  out. 


»      POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  139 

Rain  on  my  window  and  rain  on  the  sea 

(Oh,  but  the  rain  is  sad), 
And  only  the  dreams  of  a  vanished  barque 
And  a  vanished  youth  shine  through  the  dark, 

And  torture  the  night  and  me. 
But  somewhere,  I  think,  near  some  fair  strand, 
That  lost  ship  lies  with  its  waving  hand. 


140  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


LIFE'S  JOURNEY. 

A  S  we  speed  out  of  youth's  sunny  station, 
**  The  track  seems  to  shine  in  the  light, 
But  it  suddenly  shoots  over  chasms 

Or  sinks  into  tunnels  of  night. 
And  the  hearts  that  were  brave  in  the  morning 
.  Are  filled  with  repining  and  fears, 
As  they  pause  at  the  City  of  Sorrow 
Or  pass  through  the  Valley  of  Tears. 

But  the  road  of  this  perilous  journey 

The  hand  of  the  Master  has  made; 
With  all  its  discomforts  and  dangers, 

We  need  not  be  sad  or  afraid. 
Paths  leading  from  light  into  darkness, 

Ways  plunging  from  gloom  to  despair, 
Wind  out  through  the  tunnels  of  midnight 

To  fields  that  are  blooming  and  fair. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  141 

Though  the  rocks  and  the  shadows  surround  us. 

Though  we  catch  not  one  gleam  of  the  day, 
Above  us  fair  cities  are  laughing, 

And  dipping  white  feet  in  some  bay. 
And  always,  eternal,  forever, 

Down  over  the  hills  in  the  west, 
The  last  final  end  of  our  journey, 

There  lies  the  Great  Station  of  Rest. 

'Tis  the  Grand  Central  point  of  all  railways, 
All  roads  unite  here  when  they  end; 

Tis  the  final  resort  of  all  tourists, 
All  rival  lines  meet  here  and  blend. 

All  tickets,  all  mile-books,  all  passes, 
If  stolen  or  begged  for  or  bought, 

On  whatever  road  or  division, 

Will  bring  you  at  last  to  this  spot. 

» 

If  you  pause  at  the  City  of  Trouble, 
Or  wait  in  the  Valley  of  Tears, 


142  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

Be  patient,  the  train  will  move  onward, 
And  rush  down  the  track  of  the  years. 

Whatever  the  place  is  you  seek  for, 
Whatever  your  game  or  your  quest, 

You  shall  come  at  the  last  with  rejoicing, 
To  the  beautiful  City  of  Rest. 

You  shall  store  all  your  baggage  of  worries, 

You  shall  feel  perfect  peace  in  this  realm, 
You  shall  sail  with  old  friends  on  fair  waters, 

With  joy  and  delight  at  the  helm. 
You  shall  wander  in  cool,  fragrant  gardens 

With  those  who  have  loved  you  the  best, 
And  the  hopes  that  were  lost  in  life's  journey 

You  shall  find  in  the  City  of  Rest. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  143 

THE  DISAPPOINTED. 

r  I  ^HERE  are  songs  enough  for  the  hero 
Who  dwells  on  the  heights  of  fame; 
I  sing  for  the  disappointed — 
For  those  who  missed  their  aim. 

I  sing  with  a  tearful  cadence 

For  one  who  stands  in  the  dark, 
And  knows  that  his  last,  best  arrow 

Has  bounded  back  from  the  mark. 

I  sing  for  the  breathless  runner, 

The  eager,  anxious  soul, 
Who  falls  with  his  strength  exhausted, 

Almost  in  sight  of  the  goal; 

For  the  hearts  that  break  in  silence, 

With  a  sorrow  all  unknown, 
For  those  who  need  companions, 

Yet  walk  their  ways  alone. 


144  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

There  are  songs  enough  for  the  lovers 
Who  share  love's  tender  pain, 

I  sing  for  the  one  whose  passion 
Is  given  all  in  vain. 

For  those  whose  spirit  comrades 
Have  missed  them  on  the  way, 

I  sing,  with  a  heart  o'erflowing, 
This  minor  strain  to-day. 

And  I  know  the  Solar  system 
Must  somewhere  keep  in  space 

A  prize  for  that  spent  runner 
Who  barely  lost  the  race. 

For  the  plan  would  be  imperfect 
Unless  it  held  some  sphere 

That  paid  for  the  toil  and  talent 
And  love  that  are  wasted  here. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  145 


FISHING. 

IV  /I  AYBE  this  is  fun,  sitting  in  the  sun, 

•  *"*     With  a  book  and  parasol,  as  my  Angler  wishes, 

While  he  dips  his  line  in  the  ocean  brine, 

Under  the  impression  that  his  bait  will  catch  the 
fishes. 

Tis  romantic,  yes,  but  I  must  confess 

Thoughts  of  shady  rooms  at  home  somehow  seem 

more  inviting. 
But  I  dare  not  move — "Quiet,  there,  my  love!" 

Says  my  Angler,  "for  I  think  a  monster  fish  is  bit- 

ing." 
Oh,  of  course  it's  bliss,  but  how  hot  it  is! 

And  the  rock  I'm  sitting  on  grows  harder  every 

minute; 
Still  my  fisher  waits,  trying  various  baits, 

But  the  basket  at  his  side  I  see  has  nothing  in  it. 
10 


146  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE, 

Oh,  it's  just  the  way  to  pass  a  July  day, 

Arcadian  and  sentimental,  dreamy,  idle,  charming, 
But  how  fierce  the  sunlight  falls!  and  the  way  that 

insect  crawls 
Along  my  neck  and  down  my  back  is  really  quite 

alarming 

"Any  luck?"  I  gently  ask  of  the  angler  at  his  task, 
"There's  something  pulling  at  my  line,"  he  says; 

"I've  almost  caught  it." 
But  when  with  blistered  face,  we  our  homeward  steps 

retrace, 

We   take   the   little  basket  just   as   empty   as   we 
brought  it. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  147 

A  PIN. 

,  I  know  a  certain  lady  who  is  reckoned  with 
the  good, 
Yet  she  fills  me  with  more  terror  than  a  raging  lion 

would. 
The  little  chills  run  up  and  down  my  spine  whene'er 

we  meet, 

Though  she  seems  a  gentle  creature,  and  she's  very 
trim  and  neat. 

And  she  has  a  thousand  virtues  and  not  one  acknowl 
edged  sin, 

But  she  is  the  sort  of  person  you  could  liken  to  a  pin. 

And  she  pricks  you  and  she  sticks  you  in  a  way  that 
can't  be  said. 

If  you  seek  for  what  has  hurt  you — why,  you  cannot 
find  the  head! 

But  she  fills  you  with  discomfort  and  exasperating 

pain. 

If  anybody  asks  you  why,  you  really  can't  explain! 
A  pin  is  such  a  tiny  thing,  of  that  there  is  no  doubt, 


148  '  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 

Yet  when  it's  sticking  in  your  flesh  you're  wretched 
till  it's  out. 

She  is  wonderfully  observing —  when   she  meets  a 

pretty  girl, 

She  is  always  sure  to  tell  her  if  her  hair  is  out  of  curl ; 
And  she  is  so  sympathetic  to  her  friend  who's  much 

admired, 
She  is  often  heard  remarking,  "Dear,  you  look  so 

worn  and  tired." 

And  she  is  an  honest  critic,  for  on  yesterday  she  eyed 
The  new  dress  I  was  airing  with  a  woman's  natural 

pride, 
And  she  said,  "Oh,  how  becoming!"  and  then  gently 

added,  "it 
Is  really  a  misfortune  that  the  basque  is  sucn  a  fit." 

Then  she  said,  "If  you  had  heard  me  yester  eve,  I'm 

sure,  my  friend, 
You  would  say  I  was  a  champion  who  knows  how  to 

defend." 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  149 

And  she  left  me  with  the  feeling — most  unpleasant,  I 

aver — 
That  the  whole  world  would  despise  me  if  it  hadn't 

been  for  her. 

Whenever  I  encounter  her,  in  such  a  nameless  way 
She  gives  me  the  impression  I  am  at  my  worst  that 

day. 
And  the  hat  that  was  imported  (and  which  cost  me 

half  a  sonnet), 
With  just  one  glance1  from  her  round  eyes  becomes  a 

Bowery  bonnet. 

She  is  always  bright  and  smiling,  sharp  and  pointed 

for  a  thrust. 
Use  does  not  seem  to  blunt  her  point,  nor  does  she 

gather  rust, 
Oh!  I  wish  some  hapless  specimen  of  mankind  would 

begin 
To  tidy  up  the  world  for  me,  by  picking  up  this  pin ! 


ItO  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


THE  ACTOR. 

H,  man,  with  your  wonderful  dower, 

Oh,  woman,  with  genius  and  grace, 
You  can  teach  the  whole  world  with  your  power, 

If  you  are  but  worthy  the  place. 
The  stage  is  a  force  and  a  factor 

In  moulding  the  thought  of  the  day, 
If  only  the  heart  of  the  actor 
Is  high  as  the  theme  of  the  play. 

No  discourse  or  sermon  can  reach  us 

Through  feeling  to  reason  like  you; 
No  author  can  stir  us  and  teach  us 

With  lessons  as  subtle  and  true. 
Your  words  and  your  gestures  obeying 

We  weep  or  rejoice  with  your  part, 
And  the  player,  behind  all  his  playing, 

He  ought  to  be  great  as  his  art. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  151 

No  matter  what  role  you  are  giving, 

No  matter  what  skill  you  betray, 
The  everyday  life  you  are  living, 

Is  certain  to  color  the  play. 
The  thoughts  we  call  secret  and  hidden 

Are  creatures  of  malice,  in  fact. 
They  steal  forth  unseen  and  unbidden, 

And  permeate  motive  and  act. 

The  genius  that  shines  like  a  comet 

Fills  only  one  part  of  God's  plan, 

i 

If  the  lesson  the  world  derives  from  it 

Is  marred  by  the  life  of  the  man. 
Be  worthy  your  work  if  you  love  it; 

The  king  should  be  fit  for  the  crown; 
Stand  high  as  your  art,  or  above  it, 

And  make  us  look  up  and  not  down. 


152  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


ILLOGICAL. 

s 


HE  stood  beside  me  while  I  gave  an  order 
for  a  bonnet. 


She  shuddered  when  I  said,  "And  put  a 

bright  bird's  wing  upon  it. 

A  member  of  the  Audubon  Society  was  she; 
And  cutting  were  her  comments  made  on 

worldly  folks  like  me. 

She  spoke  about  the  helpless  birds  we  wickedly 

were  harming ; 

She  quoted  the  statistics,  and  they  really 

were  alarming;  -* 

She  said  God  meant  His  little  birds  to  sing 

in  trees  and  skies; 

And  there  was  pathos  in  her  voice,  and 

tears  were  in  her  eves. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  153 

"Oh,  surely  in  this  beauteous  world  you 

can  find  lovely  things 

Enough  to  trim  your  hats,"  she  said,  "with 

out  the  dear  birds'  wings.'' 

I  sat  beside  her  that  same  day,  in  her 

own  house  at  dinner, 

Angelic  being  that  she  was  to  entertain 

a  sinner! 

Her  well-appointed  table  groaned 

beneath  the  ample  spread 
Course  followed  appetizing  course,  and 

hunger  sated  fled; 

But  still  my  charming  hostess  urged,  "Do 

have  a  reed-bird,  dear, 

They  are  so  delicate  and  sweet 

at  this  time  of  the  year." 


154  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE, 


NEW  YEAR. 

T  SAW  on  the  hills  of  the  morning, 
The  form  of  the  New  Year  arise, 
He  stood  like  a  statue  adorning 

The  world  with  a  background  of  skies. 
There  were  courage  and  grace  in  his  beautiful  face, 
And  hope  in  his  glorious  eyes. 

"I  come  from  Time's  boundless  forever," 

He  said,  with  a  voice  like  a  song. 
"I  come  as  a  friend  to  endeavor, 

I  come  as  a  foe  to  all  wrong. 
To  the  sad  and  afraid  I  bring  promise  of  aid.. 

And  the  weak  I  will  gird  and  make  strong. 

"I  bring  you  more  blessings  than  terrors, 
I  bring  you  more  sunlight  than  gloom, 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  155 

I  tear  out  your  page  of  old  errors, 

And  hide  them  away  in  Time's  tomb. 

I  reach  you  clean  hands,  and  lead  on  to  the  lands 
Where  the  lilies  of  peace  are  in  bloom." 


156  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


NEW  YEAR. 

A   S  the  old  year  sinks  down  in  Time's  ocean, 
**'     Stand  ready  to  launch  with  the  new, 
And  waste  no  regrets,  no  emotion, 

As  the  masts  and  the  spars  pass  from  view. 
Weep  not  if  some  treasures  go  under, 

And  sink  in  the  rotten  ship's  hold, 
That  blithe  bonny  barque  sailing  yonder 

May  bring  you  more  wealth  than  the  old. 

For  the  world  is  forever  improving, 

All  the  past  is  not  worth  one  to-day, 
And  whatever  deserves  our  true  loving. 

Is  stronger  than  death  or  decay. 
Old  love,  was  it  wasted  devotion? 

Old  friends,  were  they  weak  or  untrue? 
Well,  let  them  sink  there  in  mid  ocean, 

And  sfailv  sail  on  to  the  new. 


POEMS  OF  PLEASURE.  157 

Throw  overboard  toil  misdirected. 

Throw   overboard   ill-advised   hope, 
With  aims  which,  your  soul  has  detected, 

Have  self  as  their  centre  and  scope. 
Throw  overboard  useless  regretting 

For  deeds  which  you  cannot  undo, 
And  learn  the  great  art  of  forgetting 

Old  things  which  embitter  the  new. 

Sing  who  will  of  dead  years  departed, 

I  shroud  them  and  bid  them  adieu, 
And  the  song  that  I  sing,  happy-hearted, 

Ts  a  song  of  the  glorious  new. 


158  POEMS  OF  PLEASURE. 


NOW. 

looks  behind  him  to  some  vanished  time 
And  says,  "Ah,  I  was  happy  then,  alack! 
I  did  not  know  it  was  my  life's  best  prime — 
Oh,  if  I  could  go  back!" 

Another  looks,  with  eager  eyes  aglow, 

To  some  glad  day  of  joy  that  yet  will  dawn, 

And  sighs,  "I  shall  be  happy  then,  I  know; 
Oh,  let  me  hurry  on." 

But  I — I  look  out  on  my  fair  To-day; 

I  clasp  it  close  and  kiss  its  radiant  brow. 
Here  with  the  perfect  present  let  me  stay, 

For  I  am  happy  now! 


to 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 

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UL1    1952 

2  6  1956 

17  1956 


3   KEC8 

14 


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KC'O  UM)M 

JUN181985 


DEC    51981  ,^ 

r  *«»i 

JUN  01^85 


yja£ 

m  iior  «w 

Sfc"  A 


20m-]2,'3»(33SO) 


3   1158  00031    4814 


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